GIFT   OF 


c?  T. 


HOVSE 


TH?VSAND 
COBWEBS 


Being  a  BOOK  OF  FABLES 

written  in  the  Vernacular 

of  Today 


The  author— in  a  typical  frame  of  mine 


The  HOUSE  of  a 

THOUSAND  COBWEBS 

and  nine  other 

FABLES 


By  H.  A.  STEBBINS 

AUTHOR  OF 
"REVERIES  OF  A  RAMBLER,"  ETC. 

Illustrated  by   RAY  WINTERS 


SAN    FRANCISCO 

THE  ABBOTT  PRESS 

1920 


COPYRIGHT    1920    BY    H.    A.    STEBBINS 
ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 


In  the  order 
of  their  appearance: 

THE  HOUSE  OF  A  THOUSAND  COBWEBS      .     .     13 

ALL  TO  THE  MUSTACHE       25 

THE  LATE  MR.  JAZZ 41 

Go  THOU  AND  SIN  SOME  MORE 55 

THE  FIASCO  OF  FLAVIUS  FLIVVER  ....  69 
ALL  is  NOT  BIRD  THAT  TWITTERS  ....  83 
HEWERS  OF  WOOD  AND  DRAWERS  OF  WATER  99 
THE  POT  OF  GOLD  AT  THE  END  OF  THE  PAYROLL  109 
THE  Boss  WHO  LISTENED  TO  TREASON  .  .127 
ALL  Fuzz  AND  A  YARD  WIDE 147 

416730 


Warning 


A'EW  years  back,  in  the  course  of  my 
magazine  work,  I  had  occasion  to  inter 
view  a  famous  evangelist  who  is  accused 
of  having  crowded  more  sinners  into  the  State 
of  Penance  than  any  other  living  soul.  This  evan 
gelist,  by  the  way,  is  famous  not  only  for  the  tre 
mendous  host  of  converts  who  follow  in  his  wake} 
but  for  his  forceful  and  fiery  style  of  preaching. 

And  I  said  to  this  Preachin'  Bill:     "Why 
do  you  say  that  'David  hit  Goliath  right  on  the 
coco  between  the  two  lamps/  when  you  can  get 
the  same  gospel  truth  over  by  using  English 
pure  and  undefiled?" 

"My  son,"  he  parried  back,  "that  isn't 
slang — it's  the  language  of  the  people." 

And  so  I  have  chosen  the  "language  of  the 
people  "  to  get  over  some  observations  on  the  foibles 
and  frailties  of  humankind;  and,  more  especially, 
some  sidelights  on  those  who  play  more  or  less 
important  roles  in  the  Romance  of  Business. 


— by  the  Author 


We  are  apt  to  underrate  the  moral  quality 
of  a  man's  regular  vocation,  his  daily  task,  his 
business;  to  look  somewhere  apart  from  this  for 
his  opportunity  to  achieve  character  and  do  good. 

But,  to  those  who  have  the  eye  to  see  and 
the  ear  to  hear,  there  is  much  that  is  fine,  much 
that  is  characterful,  and  much  that  is  serio-comic 
in  the  daily  routine  of  the  workaday  world. 

To  tap  the  rich  vein  of  mirth  that  runs 
through  the  lighter  side  of  America's  business 
life;  to  bring  out  the  high-lights  and  the  bright 
spots  that  lurk  in  human  nature — this  has  been 
my  object  in  writing  these  Fables  that  teach 
without  preaching  and  that  serve  a  moral  purpose 
even  as  they  entertain. 

I  am  indebted  to  the  Fairchild  Company, 
Publishers,  for  permitting  me  to  embody  in  this 
volume  a  number  of  Fables  that  originally 
appeared  in  their  publications. 

— H.  A.  s. 


The  HOUSE  of  a 
THOUSAND  COBWEBS 

A  Fable  about  the  lad  who  cleaned  house 

YOUNG  MUSTY  was  an  Old  Man  at  Thirty- 
five.  At  this  Age  he  had  lapsed  into  the 
Business  founded  by  his  Great  Grand  Dad 
and  had  relapsed  into  the  slouch-before-the-fireside 
Attitude  of  his  august  Forebears. 

In  point  of  Nativity  he  was  American.  But,  so 
far  as  Business  Methods  go,  he  was  essentially 
Chinese.  He  operated  on  the  bland,  Smokum- 
okum  Principle  that  what  was  good  enough  for  his 
Ancestral  Strain  was  good  enough  for  him. 

True — the  Business  had  begun  to  give  off  the 
Dank  Odor  of  Dry  Rot.  But,  since  there  were 
Cobwebs  Aplenty  in  his  alleged  Cabeza,  his  Olfac 
tory  Senses  were  oblivious  to  said  Odor. 

The  Employees  of  Musty 's  Emporium  were 
sober  and  sedate.  Also  they  were  stiff,  stilted  and 
stereotyped.  All  affected  the  same  Garb  and  all 
belonged  to  the  same  Denominational  Church. 
All  took  Pride  in  being  aligned  with  such  an  Old 
Line  House  and  all  energetically  opposed  anything 


1 4  The  House  of  a 

designed  to  inject  some  Modern  Elixir  into  the 
Life  of  the  Stagnant  Business. 

They  worshipped  at  the  Shrine  of  Convention 
and  those  who  even  flirted  with  Progress  were 
branded  Heretics,  Infidels,  Upstarts  and  No- 
Accounts  in  general.  They  would  point  with 
Pride  at  their  own  Decorousness  and  would  view 
with  Alarm  the  Tendency  towards  Pep  and  Buoy 
ancy  in  Modern-Day  Business. 

Had  it  not  been  for  the  Foresight  of  the  original 
Mr.  Musty  the  Enterprise  founded  by  him  would 
have  long  since  toppled  into  the  Limbo  of 
Decadent  Dreams.  But  the  Old  Boy  had  pitched 
his  Business  Tent  in  what  was  destined  to  be  a 
Strategic  Site  and  so  had  left  his  Progeny  a 
Heritage  worth  having. 

The  Business  did  not  peter  out  in  One  Day  any 
more  than  you  can  riddle  a  sturdy  Fort  full  of  Holes 
in  one  short  Spasm.  It  takes  Old  Doc  Time  to 
undermine  it — to  ferret  out  the  weak  and  vulner 
able  Spots  in  the  Wall  of  Defense. 

It  was  a  gradual  Process  of  Decay — the  subtle 
Poisons  of  Inertia  and  Smug  Satisfaction  eating 
their  Way  into  the  very  Vitals  of  the  Business. 


Thousand  Cobwebs X5 

And  so  the  House  of  Musty  passed  through  one 
weary  Regime  after  another  until  its  very  Essence 
had  been  sapped  and  there  was  nothing  left  but 
the  outward  Hulk  of  an  Enterprise  once  in  its 
prime. 

It  was  at  this  Juncture — as  they  say  in  those 
exciting  Sherlock  Guck  Stories — that  Bob  Ban 
ning  blew  into  Town  and  blew  up  to  Musty 's. 
Bob's  full  Label  in  the  Official  Nomenclature  of 
his  Family  was  Robert  Musty  Banning.  But,  to 
all  intents  and  practical  purposes,  he  was  just 
Plain  Bob. 

Bob  never  let  his  Monicker  worry  him  any. 
And  it  didn  't !  He  always  figured  that  one  Handle 
is  as  good  as  another  provided  you  know  when  to 
hook  on  to  the  Buzz-Wagon  of  Opportunity. 

Bob  was  just  out  of  School  but  had  crammed 
in  some  mighty  helpful  Business  Experience  'tween 
Semesters  and  he  was  anxious  to  get  into  the  Fray. 
To  be  sure,  some  of  his  Ideas  on  Business  were  a 
wee  bit  Utopian,  but  they  were  fresh  and  clean  and 
worth  trying. 

Some  of  the  staid  and  sombre  Folk  at  Home 
thought  him  a  bit  queer  and  offish,  but  affirmed 


He  operated  on   the  bland,  smokum- 

okuni  principle  that  what  was  good 

enough  for  his  ancestral  strain  zvas 

good  enough  for  him 


Thousand  Cobwebs  1 7 

that  he  was  a  Likable  Chap  at  that.  While  to 
others  of  the  High  and  Mighty  he  was  just  too  fly 
and  flip  and  flighty. 

The  Merchants  in  his  College  Town  out  of  whom 
he  had  wormed  Ads  for  the  Campus  Cleaner — the 
official  School  Paper — were  wont  to  laugh  at  his 
Ideas  for  stimulating  Trade.  But,  allee  samee, 
they  would  come  to  and  come  through. 

Coming  back,  then,  to  Bob's  Debut  in  Town — 
that  memorable  First  Session  with  Mr.  Musty, 
Proprietor  of  the  Establishment  which  bore  his 
Name,  nearly  took  all  the  Breeze  out  of  Bob's 
Sails.  But  he  was  game  and  veered  right  'round 
on  a  Different  Tack.  He  argued  that  he  was 
entitled  to  a  Job  not  because  he  was  Musty 's 
Nephew  but  in  spite  of  it.  And,  what  is  more, 
he  got  it! 

It  didn't  take  Bob  long  to  get  his  Bearings. 
And,  when  he  did,  he  gave  Vent  to  his  Feelings  by 
one  long,  low  and  mournful  Whistle — thereby 
rudely  disturbing  a  Neat  Breastwork  of  Dust  on 
a  Ledge  nearby. 

After  doping  it  out  from  every  Angle,  Bob  de 
cided  to  pitch  in  and  dust  off  as  many  Cobwebs  as 


8  The  House  of  a 

he  could  lay  Hands  on.  He  was  no  Messiah — this 
Bob  Banning.  He  was  not  projected  out  of  a 
Clear  Sky  to  save  Musty 's  from  crumpling  up  in 
the  Dust  of  its  own  making.  He  was  no  Genius, 
no  Marvel,  no  Medicine  Man,  no  Miracle-Worker. 
His  Ideas  were  neither  Quixotic  nor  Chaotic.  He 
was  simply  imbued  with  the  Romance  of  Business. 

And,  he  had  two  Splendid  Gifts.  One  was  Per 
spective — the  other  Initiative.  He  hadn't  won 
any  Scholarships  in  Mathematics  and  he  didn't 
know  a  Rap  about  the  Fourth  Dimension.  But 
he  did  know  how  to  size  up  a  proposition  muy 
pronto! 

As  for  Starting  Things  on  his  own  Hook,  he  had 
formulated  for  his  own  Use  the  characteristic 
Declaration  that  he  who  hesitates  is  bossed! 

During  those  First  Few  Months  that  Bob  tried 
to  put  some  of  his  Ideas  into  practical  and  profit 
able  Operation,  he  was  about  as  popular  as  a  Flock 
of  Rodents  at  a  Suffragette  Convention.  It  is 
true,  of  course,  that  he  had  Musty 's  inane  Consent 
to  go  ahead.  But  Grim  Precedent  stalked  the 
Store  and  balked  him  at  every  Turn. 

His  first  Sweeping  Suggestion  was — Brighten  Up! 


Thousand  Cobwebs  19 

He  advised  the  Salesmen  to  perk  up  and  inject  a 
little  Color  into  their  own  Attire  and  some  Atmos 
phere  into  the  Store  Proper.  He  explained  that 
Occasional  Laughter  in  a  Business  House  is  not 
irreverent  and  that  a  Man  prefers  to  be  smiled,  not 
scowled,  into  a  difficult  Purchase.  He  showed 
them  the  Difference  between  Courtesy  and  Mock 
Humility  and  added  that  Hauteur  was  just  as 
much  out  of  place  as  Servility. 

In  a  friendly  Chat  with  the  Floormen  he  demon 
strated  how  easy  it  was  to  get  a  little  Personal 
Interest  into  their  Voices  when  directing  a  Patron 
storeward.  He  showed  how  important  was  their 
Function  of  welcoming  the  Customer.  He  empha 
sized  that  their  Job  embraced  much  more  than  the 
giving  of  Perfunctory  Directions  to  the  General 
Effect  that  "Men's  belts  are  first  aisle  to  the  left!" 

At  the  cool,  diffident  Salesmen  he  leveled  some 
new  Conceptions  in  Salesmanship.  He  urged  that 
when  a  Man  came  in  to  buy  a  Suit  it  was  a  human 
Business  Transaction — not  necessarily  a  lolling 
Social  Event  to  be  chronicled  in  the  next  day's 
Society  Colyum. 

Besides,  he  was  a  Stickler  for  correct  Business 


He  explained  that  occasional  laughter  in 

a  business  house  is  not  irreverent  and 

that  a  man  prefers  to  be  smiled,  not 

scowled,  into  a  difficult  purchase 


Thousand  Cobwebs 2I 

English.  He  showed  the  Selling  Staff  how  much 
could  be  accomplished  by  Questions  couched  in 
Positive  Terms.  He  instanced  that  a  Man  buying 
a  Shirt  does  not  wish  to  be  asked,  "How  long  do 
you  wear  your  sleeves,  sir?" 

He  presented  to  the  Store  Management  the  con 
crete  Fact  that  the  Window  Displays — placed,  as 
they  were,  in  the  very  Vortex  of  Trade — repre 
sented  the  most  potential  Method  of  Attracting 
Sales;  and  that,  therefore,  it  was  no  Mandate  of 
the  God  of  Business  that  the  Window  Back 
grounds  could  not  be  changed  once  in  a  while. 

He  delineated  the  real  Mission  of  Window  Dis 
play  Cards.  He  urged  that  they  could  be  made  to 
really  Say  Something  instead  of  allowing  them  to 
assume  Conventional  Attitudes  and  voice  Hoary 
Platitudes. 

What's  more,  he  completely  revamped  the  Ad 
vertising  of  Musty 's.  And  he  did  it  successfully 
because  he  brought  a  New  Viewpoint  to  bear. 

First — he  injected  some  Amiability  and  Human 
Interest  into  the  Advertising,  displacing  the  stiff, 
formal  and  spasmodic  Announcements  hitherto  em 
ployed.  He  made  the  trite,  commonplace  Things 


The  House  of  a 


of  Store  Life  decidedly  interesting.  He  sugar- 
coated  nothing  but  invested  his  Business  News 
with  an  Intrinsic  Sensation  that  could  not  help  but 
appeal. 

He  made  Sound  Capital  out  of  the  Stability  and 
Integrity  of  the  Business  and  played  up  their 
Service  and  their  Guarantee  that  never  played 
hide-and-seek.  He  showed  that  his  Store  was  not 
only  a  good  Place  to  buy  but  a  safe  Place  —  a  Place 
where  Fathers  could  send  their  Youngsters  with 
the  Assurance  that  they  would  get  a  Four-Square 
Deal. 

He  unearthed  and  rejuvenated  the  Store's  Mail 
ing  List  on  the  profitable  Assumption  that  the  Old- 
Line  Customers  would  not  be  shocked  occasionally 
to  get  a  tasty  Folder  or  Booklet  detailing  a  current 
Store  Event. 

He  made  the  Delivery  Department  a  pertinent 
Source  of  Exploitation  and  made  the  Public  under 
stand  the  seeming  Paradox  that  a  Sale  is  only  half 
begun  when  it  's  done. 

These  and  other  Things  did  Bob  Banning  per 
form  for  the  revered  House  of  Musty.  True  —  it 
was  hard,  inexpressibly  hard  —  to  peel  off  the  Wrap- 


Thousand  Cobwebs  23 

pings  of  Decay — to  tear  away  the  Shroud  of 
Sanctity  that  had  been  cast  over  Medieval  Ideas 
and  Mummified  Practices.  But  he  did  it! 

The  Transition  did  not  take  place  in  a  Day  or  a 
Week  or  a  Month.  The  Metamorphosis  was  slow 
— inevitably  slow.  But  out  of  it  rose  a  Newer  and 
Better  and  Brighter  Business. 

MORAL:  Tou  never  know  bow  many  cob 
webs  there  are  in  your  attic  until  some  one 
wbisks  in  with  a  duster. 


All  to  the  Mustache 

WHEREIN  is  recorded  the  tale 

of  a  discerning  youth  ^ho  laid 

siege  to  a  lady's  heart  in  a 

manner  at  once  peculiar 

and  tonsorial 


ALL  to  the  MUSTACHE 

A  Fable  about  the  mis-placed  eyebrow  that  "prospered 

E~  K  him  over  from  Hold  to  Mizzen  Mast  and 
Maurice  Manning  wasn't  such  a  bad  Chap 
at  that.  About  the  worst  they  could  say 
about  him  was  that  he  chewed  Gum  incessantly 
and  was  partial  to  Blondes. 

But,  then,  lots  of  us  are  in  the  Same  Dory  with 
Maury — eh  what?  Come  now,  'fess  up! 

By  dint  of  patient  Plugging  and  Perseverance 
and  much  burning  of  the  Midnight  Mazda, 
Maurice  had  catapulted  himself  into  the  Swivel 
Chair  of  the  Assistant  Advertising  Manager.  Come 
to  think  of  it,  catapulted  isn't  the  Word.  He 
caterfillared  in. 

Just  how  popular  he  was  with  the  Boys  in  the 
Outer  Office  can  be  gauged  by  the  fact  that  they 
had  bestowed  upon  him  the  Subtle  Sobriquet  of 
The  Worm.  Perhaps  it  was  because  he  was  forever 
chewing  Wrigley  's.  Again,  they  may  have  figured 
he  traveled  on  his  Belly  as  do  some  Portly  Per 
sonages  with  Pronounced  Promontories. 

He  was  a  typical  Plodder,  was  Maurice.  You 
couldn't,  by  any  stretch  of  the  Mental  Trapeze, 


All  to  the  Mustache 


label  him  temperamental.  Calm,  serene,  un 
ruffled  —  you'd  think  he  had  been  born  on  Lake 
Placid. 

Earnest,  willing,  conscientious,  competent  — 
Maurice  was  any  and  all  the  Adjectives  commonly 
bestowed  on  themselves  by  sanguine  Business 
School  Graduates  when  Replying  to  your  Adver 
tisement  in  Today's  Times  for  a  Fifteen  Dollar-a- 
Week  Office  Assistant.  Only,  Maurice  was  there 
with  the  Goods  —  very  much  so. 

But,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  none  of  the  Girls  in 
the  Office  were  especially  crazy  about  him.  All 
admitted  he  was  an  Accommodating  Little  Fellow 
and  terribly  competent.  But  that  was  all. 

Aside  from  the  Slavey  who  doled  out  his  Eats  at 
Madame  Granola's  Boarding  House,  nary  a  Mem 
ber  of  the  Feminine  Contingent  had  ever  cast 
Meaningful  Glances  at  him.  Nor  had  any  of 
them  ever  given  him  the  least  bit  of  Encourage 
ment.  About  as  far  as  any  of  them  went  was  to 
accept  a  Julep  Mint  from  Maurice  as  the  Salivary 
Occasion  offered. 

But  there  was  One  Little  Blonde  in  particular 
on  whom  Maurice  had  had  an  Awful  Case  ever 


All  to  the  Mustache 29 

since  she'd  unpacked  her  Charms  and  her  Note 
Book.  This  particular  Specimen  of  Feminine 
Architecture  was  the  Boss'  Own  Steno  and,  say 
what  you  please  about  the  Boss,  he  certainly  knew 
how  to  pick  'em.  The  Big  Chief  has  always  main 
tained  that  a  Good-Looker  inspired  him  to  bigger 
and  brighter  and  more  benign  Thoughts.  In 
short,  he  needed  her  in  his  Business. 

And  Maurice  had  it  doped  out  the  same  way. 
He  needed  her  in  bis  Business.  But  this  par 
ticular  Offspring  of  Eve  never  looked  at  our  Hero 
unless  she  had  to,  and  when  she  did,  she  made  him 
feel  as  if  he'd  forgotten  Something. 

Now  Maurice  wasn't  altogether»a  Grouch  albeit 
a  Phrenologist  might  have  discovered  a  Bump  of 
Crabbiness  in  his  Dome.  But  gradually  it  dawned 
on  him  that  when  it  came  to  making  Overtures  to 
the  Fair  Sex  a  la  Bee-a-trice  Fair-fax,  he  was  very 
much  persona  non  grata — as  the  Highbrows  put  it. 

"Humph!"  you  grunt  by  way  of  interpolation. 
"What  did  he  want  to  monkey  'round  the  Dames 
for — a  nice  little  Chap  like  that?  Why  didn't  he 
leave  well  enough  alone? — the  Big  Gob!" 

Well,  you  see,  that's  the  Hopeful  Part  of  it:     it 


30 All  to  the  Mustache 

showed  Brother  Maurice  was  human.  And  it  got 
his  Ram  to  see  how  the  Girls  made  a  Fuss  over 
these  Nincompoops  who  hadn't  an  Idea  in  their 
Heads — or  a  Brilliant  Epigram  at  their  Tongues' 
End  but,  who — 

Quick,  Watson,  my  Ever-Ready — Flash! — 
Flash — an  I-D-E-A!  The  very  thing!  He  would 
do  it!  What  if  the  Fellows  did  kid  him  about  it? 
You  couldn't  pull  any  kind  of  a  Martyr  Stunt 
* .  these  days  without  encountering  Derisive  Guf 
faws!  Yes,  he  would! — blast  his  Top-Piece  if  he 
didn't!  He  would  grow  a  Mustache! 

How?  What?  When?  Why?  Patience,  Patricia, 
read  on ! 

To  be  sure,  Maurice  appreciated  that  at  his 
period  of  Adolescence  he  couldn't  expect  a  Ton- 
sorial  Harvest.  But  he  figured  he  could  keep  the 
Hedges  trimmed  so  as  to  make  it  look  like  a  Good- 
sized  Crop  held  in  Leash. 

No  sooner  had  he  conceived  his  great,  Danderine 
Idea  than  he  proposed  to  put  it  into  Execution. 
Upon  second  thought,  it  seemed  advisable  to  defer 
the  Landscape  Effect  until  his  Vacation  hove  to, 
which  was  only  a  matter  of  a  Week  or  Two. 


All  to  the  Mustache 


While  on  his  Vacation  Maurice  assiduously 
cultivated  his  Mustache  and  made  Two  Blades 
grow  where  none  grew  before.  Day  after  day  he 
pirouetted  before  the  Mirror  and  observed  the 
beneficent  Effects  of  Intensive  Cultivation. 

Even  before  he  left  the  Barb-wired  Precincts  of 
the  Farm  where  he  had  been  vacationing,  Maurice 
noticed  the  Hired  Girl  had  begun  to  oogle-google 
him.  This,  decidedly,  was  a  New  Experience. 
He  didn't  know  whether  she  had  gone  batty  in 
this  Adamless  Eden  or  whether  it  was  the  Mus 
tache  —  so  called  by  Extreme  Tonsorial  Courtesy. 
At  any  rate,  he  gave  the  Mustache  the  Benefit  of 
the  Doubt.  Believe  me,  it  needed  it! 

On  the  Train  back  to  the  City,  into  whose 
Voracious  Maw  had  toppled  Maurice  and  thou 
sands  like  him,  he  observed  that,  while  the  "News 
Butcher"  had  snickered  at  sight  of  his  Acquisition, 
several  Young  Women  Passengers  had  cast  shy 
but  approving  Glances  at  his  Thoughtful  Counte 
nance. 

Maurice  felt  the  warm  Glow  of  Accomplishment 
permeate  his  Entire  Being.  Sitting  up  and  taking 
notice  now  —  weren't  they?  Said  Glow  was  elec- 


But  there  was  one  little  blonde  In  par 
ticular  on  whom  Maurice  had  had  an 
awful  case  ever   since  she'd  unpacked 
her  charms  and  her  note  book 


All  to  the  Mustache 33 

trical  in  its  Tonic  Effect.  It  must  have  brought 
at  least  one  more  Hair  Follicle  to  the  Region  of 
his  Upper  Lip. 

But  Maurice,  vain  though  he  was  becoming,  was 
too  much  of  a  Campaigner  to  place  Sole  Reliance 
on  the  Hirsute  Adornment  of  his  Physog — as  those 
uncouth  Sport  Writers  dearly  love  to  phrase  it. 
This  was  going  to  be  merely  le  -piece  de  resistance 
a  la  Ed.  Pinaud — savvy? 

When  it  got  bruited  about  in  the  Office  that 
The  Worm  had  not  alone  turned  but  had  returned, 
be-mustached,  be-mannered  and  be-manicured,  the 
Young  Ladies  Present  craned  their  Elf-like  Necks 
to  see  the  Innocent  Little  Thing  that  had  caused 
all  this  Hubbub.  With  few  exceptions,  they  took 
pains  to  assure  Maurice  that  it  was  "positively 
becoming"  and,  Goodness!  Gracious! — why  hadn't 
he  thought  of  it  before? 

Maurice  accepted  this  Flood  of  Feminine  Ecstasy 
with  the  utmost  Nonchalance  and  proceeded  to 
follow  up  this  Ante  by  hiring  a  Strange  Young  Girl 
to  write  him  about  a  Half  Dozen  Letters  a  day, 
Sundays  included.  These  were  to  be  addressed  to 
him  at  the  Office,  most  assuredly. 


34 All  to  the  Mustache 

Maurice  told  the  Girl  he  didn't  care  especially 
what  she  said  or  didn't  say.  The  Big  Thing  was 
to  use  Stationery  that  was  distingue  and  to  have 
the  Chirography  essentially  feminine.  The  Salu 
tation  in  each  Affectionate  Instance  was  to  be 
something  like  Heart  of  Mine,  Honey-bunch,  Tou 
Dream  Man,  My  Great  Big  Boy — nothing  tamer 
than  Maury  Darling.  On  occasion,  the  Recipient 
of  these  Saccharine  Messages  would  leave  one  of 
these  Affectionettes  lying  carefully  careless  on  his 
Desk  so  that  those  who  ran  by  might  read. 

Did  it  work?    Say,  does  a  Frog  croak? 

He  also  cooked  up  a  deal  with  the  Slavey  at  the 
Boarding  House  who  had  a  Silvery  Voice  even  if 
she  did  dress  like  Mary  Pickford  in  "Hulda  from 
Holland."  The  Idea  was  for  her  to  phone  him  at 
the  Office  at  least  once  a  day,  ask  him  how  he  felt, 
whether  he  got  Home  all  right  the  night  before, 
thank  him  for  the  Box  of  Huyler's  or  Orchids  he 
hadn't  sent  and,  in  general,  to  let  some  of  her 
Boundless  Passion  and  Undying  Love  ooze  over 
the  Wires  so  his  Operator  would  be  sure  to  get  an 
Earful,  good  and  plenty.  Slavey  was  admonished 
further  never  to  hang  up  without  murmuring 


All  to  the  Mustache 35 

"Goodbye,  Dear"  and  to  say  it  tremulously  as  if 
it  severed  her  very  Heart  Strings  to  disconnect. 

Did  it  work?     Say,  does  a  Grasshopper  hop  ? 

To  supplement  this  he  arranged  with  the  Handy 
Man  about  Madame  Granola's  Abode  to  call  him 
up  at  certain,  prescribed  Intervals  when  he  would 
be  sure  to  be  out  of  the  Office.  When  the  Operator 
asked  Mr.  Handy  Man  for  the  Message,  that  was 
his  Cue  to  smear  a  little  Three-in-One  on  his  Vocal 
Chords — ahem! — and  say  that  Mr.  Gotkale  was 
speaking  and  that  he  had  merely  wished  to  know 
if  Mr.  Manning's  Engagements  would  permit  him 
to  dine  with  him  at  the  Club  that  night. 

Did  it  work?    Say,  do  Jersey  'Skeeters  bite? 

The  Fifth  Spoke  in  Maurice's  Campaign  Wheel 
was  to  arrange  with  another  partis  criminis  to 
'phone  his  Office  and  leave  word  that  Crepe  and 
Drape,  Exclusive  Fifth  Avenoo  Tailors,  wished 
him  to  come  down  for  his  Fittings  as  soon  as  con 
venient. 

Did  it  work?  Say,  does  your  Pet  Corn  signal 
Blue  Jay  when  the  Weather's  turning? 

It  wasn't  very  long  before  Things  began  to 
happen.  Results  were  due  and  Maurice  knew  he 


He  made  two  blades  grow  where  none  grew 

before.    Day  after  day  he  pirouetted  before 

the  mirror   and  observed   the   beneficent 

effects  of  intensive  cultivation 


All  to  the  Mustache 37^ 

was  going  to  cash  in  on  his  Cumulative  Effect 
before  long. 

He  did!  All  the  Sweet  Young  Things  in  the 
Office  were  right  on  tap  with  the  Bright  Good 
Morning  Smile  and  even  the  Little  Blonde  be 
gan  to  hover  'round  more  than  seemed  necessary. 

Now  this  Ravishing  Creature  was  what  they 
call  a  Decided  Blonde.  Only,  some  of  the  less 
favored  ones  in  the  Office  got  catty  and  said  it  was 
evident  that  she'd  only  decided  recently.  Never 
theless,  the  Fact  remains  that  she  was  Considerable 
Cuckoo  in  her  Own  Little  Right — even  the  Boss 
admitted  it. 

When  this  Tidal  Wave  of  Popularity  began  to 
inundate  Friend  Maurice  the  Little  Blonde  in 
Question  was  right  there  with  the  Water  Wings 
and  kept  Abreast  of  the  Times.  Pretty  soon  she 
found  herself  taking  a  Mental  Inventory  of 
Maurice  who  suddenly  loomed  large  on  the 
Horizon  of  Desirability.  He  measured  up  pretty 
well,  she  found,  and  she  wondered  who  that  Hussy 
was  that  called  him  up  every  day  and  dispensed 
those  Monosyllabic  Gurglings  found  only  in 
Cupid's  Compendium  for  Clandestine  Croonies. 


38 All  to  the  Mustache 

Throughout  this  time,  you  understand,  Maurice 
played  his  Cards  like  a  Regular  and  kept  rather 
aloof  from  the  Office  Bunch.  Indeed,  the  Casual 
Observer  was  left  to  infer  that  it  was  a  Relief  for 
him  occasionally  to  get  away  from  the  Arena  of 
Ardent  Admirers. 

But  the  Little  Blonde  took  it  so  to  Heart  that 
even  the  Boss — who  was  a  good  Diagnostician  and 
who  recognized  all  the  Symptoms  of  the  Incipient 
Stage — asked  her  who  HE  was  and  whether  he 
could  be  of  any  Paternal  Help  in  the  matter. 

After  considerable  Blushing,  Bleating  and  other 
Functional  Disturbances  of  the  Sympathetic 
Nervous  System,  Little  Blondey  'fessed  up  and 
baffed  the  Whole  Thing. 

And  thus  it  happened  that  the  Boss — who  was 
a  Good  Samaritan  even  if  he  did  rap  Prohibition 
— passed  the  Ball  to  Maurice,  told  him  not  to 
fumble  it,  and  said  he  didn't  deserve  as  fine  a  Girl 
as  that  but  he  would  do  what  he  could  in  the 
Hymeneal  Matter. 

After  that  it  was  only  a  Short  Distance  to  the 
Little  Church  Around  the  Corner,  and  of  all  the 
Blessings  and  Benedictions  lavished  on  the  Radiant 


All  to  the  Mustache 39 

Couple  none  were  so  much  appreciated  as  that 
which  made  its  Presence  felt  every  ensuing  Satur 
day  in  Maurice's  Envelope. 

And  now  after  a  Lapse  of  some  Time,  as  they 
say  on  the  Theatre  Program,  the  only  Dark 
Streak  on  Maurice's  Horizon  of  Marital  Bliss  is 
whether  he  should  be  a  Good  Soldier  and  outline 
the  modus  operandi  to  Wifey.  But  he  thinks  that 
when  the  Little  Stranger  eventually  comes  out 
with  his  Opening  Announcement  it  will  be  a  more 
Strategic  Time  for  Father  to  disclose  the  Plan  of 
Campaign  that  produced  such  corking  good  Re 
sults. 

MORAL:  Don't  envy  the  chaps  wbo  corral 
the  ladies.    Get  a  lass-o  yourself! 


The  Late  Mr.  Jazz 

WHEREIN  is  recorded  the  tale 
of  a  chap  who  was  neither  a 
bee  nor  a  lounge  lizard  but 
who  danced  away  his  pre 
cious  hours  forever 
and  aye 


[41] 


The  LATE  MR.  JAZZ 

A  Fable  about  the  clerk  with  the  bumble  foot 

TERPSICHORE  must  have  stood  in  high 
favor  with  the  Gods  on  that  fateful  day 
when  Jeremiah  Jazz  was  ushered  into  this 
Whirly-world  of  ours — for  thus  was  his  Name  re 
corded  on  the  flyleaf  of  the  Family  Bible. 

By  all  the  laws  of  Eugenics  and  Gravitation 
Jeremiah  should  have  gone  in  for  Folk  Dancing 
and  other  Manifestations  of  the  Fine  Arts.  It 
really  was  too  bad  he  hadn't  been  christened 
Vernon  Tassle  or  Ted  Fawn  or  he  might  have 
studded  some  Dancing  Sky  of  his  own.  But  Fate 
— demure  little  Devil  that  she  is — puckered  her 
brow  and  pouted  her  pert  little  lips,  and  neatly 
deposited  Sir  Jeremiah  in  a  Stamping  Ground  no 
less  prosaic  than  Hammock's  Haberdashery.  No 
telling  what  numbers  roll  out  of  the  Dice-box  when 
Life  gets  in  its  shaking  hand. 

Now  Jeremiah  was  a  pretty  good  Salesman — 
as  Salesmen  come  and  go.  But  Jeremiah's  prime 
mission  in  Life  was  not  how  much  Work  he  could 
crowd  into  the  allotted  span  of  toil,  but  how  much 
Fun  he  could  jam  in  after  the  Curfew  had  tolled 


44 The  Late  Mr.  Jazz 

the  Knell  of  parting  day.  Work  was  all  right — a 
chap  had  to  do  a  certain  amount  of  Labor  to  get 
by.  But  where  was  the  Harm  in  stepping  out  o' 
nights  and  seeing  the  city 's  sights  ?  Gosh  all  hem 
lock,  if  a  Fellow  didn't  get  out  and  around  while 
he  was  young  and  sprightly,  what  was  the  use  of 
being  dapper  and  enticing — eh,  what?  And  why 
should  a  Duffer  spend  his  evenings  "improving  his 
mind"  when  a  Twinkling  Little  Damsel  like 
Dorothy  Dove  was  ready  to  act  as  his  personal 
tutor  in  the  High  Art  of  Genuflection  ? 

Youth  must  have  its  Fling  and,  after  all,  Busi 
ness  was  such  a  Beastly  Thing — a  Bitter  Pill  to  be 
swallowed  every  morning  except  Sunday  and 
emitted  every  evening  at  the  first  swish  after  six. 
So  our  blithe  little  Jeremiah  pursued  the  even 
Caruso  of  his  way — dispensing  genial  Smiles  of 
strong  savor  and  striking  flavor — until  he  became 
known  up  and  down  the  Rial  to  as  Jerry  the  Joy 
Boy.  He  knew  all  the  road  inns  along  the  scoot 
ing  way  to  Baron  Short's,  where  a  mellow  Traveler 
might  wax  a  degree  mellower  and  roar  with  his 
tankard  of  "musty."  He  followed  in  the  wake  of 
every  new  Step  much  after  the  fashion  of  a  new- 


The  Late  Mr.  Jazz 45 

foaled  Colt  trailing  its  Dam.  He  knew  every 
Dance  to  every  jot  and  tittle.  And  for  sheer 
ethereal  Pleasure — why,  there  was  nothing  like 
whisking  along  the  polished  floor  with  a  lithesome 
little  Lady  clad  in  Pneumonia  Draperies. 

At  such  Dancing  Fiestas  it  was  only  natural  that 
one  should  crave  a  bit  of  Liquid  by  way  of  after- 
refreshment.  "Make  'em  tall  and  heave  'em 
high,"  was  Jerry's  usual  laconic  instruction  to  the 
white-clad  Ambassador  who  ministered  to  the 
Thirst  of  famished  folk  in  this  Spirit-ual  Oasis. 

And  our  mutual  Jerry  always  was  generous  with 
his  Emoluments — yea,  verily!  No  piking  Lad 
was  he!  As  the  gallant  Cavalier  who  paid  for 
each  round  as  it  came  round,  Jerry  was  permitted 
usually  to  monopolize  the  Conversation.  Once  he 
got  started  he  was  a  regular  Gabber  from  Gabber- 
ville — his  Tongue  was  hung  in  the  middle  and  loose 
at  both  ends.  He  couldn  't  hold  a  Store  Secret  any 
more  than  a  chronic  Old  Maid  can  go  to  bed  with 
out  looking  under  said  bed  for  the  he-man  Burglar 
who  invariably  disappoints  her  by  never  showing  up. 

And  so  Jerry  would  regale  his  fellow  revelers  with 
Anecdotes — some  real  but  for  the  better  part 


For  sheer  ethereal  pleasure  there  was 

nothing  like  whisking  along  the  pot 

ished  floor  with  a  lithesome  little  lady 

clad  in  pneumonia  draperies 


The  Late  Mr.  Jazz  47 

imaginary — designed  to  instill  into  their  receptive 
Think-tanks  how  stale  was  the  Mind  of  his  Boss, 
Mr.  Hammock,  and  how  swingy  was  his  own. 
When  it  came  to  overworking  the  Personal  Pro 
noun  in  his  own  behalf  Jerry  was  simply  there  a 
Million.  Indeed,  the  casual  Listener  was  given  to 
infer  that,  were  it  not  for  the  Sagacity  and  Per 
spicacity  of  this  modest  Mr.  Jazz,  the  prosperous 
Establishment  of  Hammock's  would  have  long 
since  taken  up  its  abode  in  R.  G.  Dun 's  Mausoleum 
of  Businesses  That  Were  But  Aren  Jt. 

Things  were  going  along  swimmingly  enough 
until  one  fine  Day  in  the  month  of  May  when  Jerry 
was  respectfully  invited  to  visit  the  Sanctum  of 
the  Boss.  Jerry  did  not  lay  any  special  emphasis 
on  this  Invitation  until  he  hove  to  on  the  star 
board  side  of  Mr.  Hammock's  moorings  and  ob 
served  the  Clouds  gathering  on  the  Horizon. 
"Looks  like  Rain,"  Jerry  threw  out  by  way  of 
Camaraderie.  "  More  like  a  Squall,  I  should  say," 
came  back  Mr.  Hammock  in  similar  kind.  And 
the  Boss  was  considerable  Weather-Prophet  in  his 
own  right.  Well,  anyway,  it  was  considerable 
Squall,  as  the  Nurse  going  off  duty  in  the  Nursery 


4  8  The  Late  Mr.  Jazz 

remarks  to  the  Handsome  Interne  making  his 
rounds.  By  the  time  the  Boss  got  through  Jerry 
felt  about  as  important  as  six  bits  in  a  peanut  shell. 

In  his  gay  and  flippant  moments  Jerry  had  often 
averred  that  Old  Man  Hammock  looked  like  a  de 
termined  Old  Duck — in  fact,  he  had  a  Jaw  like  a 
miniature  Snow-plow.  Yet,  when  Jerry  got  out 
side  the  Boss'  Threshold  and  came  up  for  Air,  so 
to  speak  in  the  language  of  the  U-Boaters,  he  fig 
ured  that  Old  Hammock's  bawling  out  was  just  a 
lot  of  Dead  Talk  stuffed  with  big  Words  and  strung 
with  Wires.  Notice  that  I  say  he  "figured"  that 
way.  But,  while  Jerry  may  have  been  a  World- 
beater  at  the  newest  Tickle-toe  and  a  Riot  with  the 
Feminine  Contingent  of  Pulchritude,  he  never 
was  a  candidate  for  a  C.  P.  A.  degree.  The  net 
result  of  his  Trial-balancing  was  that,  a  week  or 
two  thereafter,  he  was  told  gently  but  firmly  that 
Hammock's  would  have  to  swing  along  without 
his  Able  Assistance. 

Did  Jerry  the  Joy  Boy  take  it  hard  to  Heart? 
Nay,  nay,  Mazurka!  Why  worry  about  Jobs 
when  Good  Men  were  always  in  demand?  And 
why  work  for  a  Bolsheviky  Boss  who  insisted  on 


The  Late  Mr.  Jazz 49 

knowing  what  a  Man  did  with  his  Evenings  when 
it  was  none  of  his  bloomin'  business? 

So  Jerry  deftly  affiliated  himself  with  a  Store  of 
lesser  Prestige.  What  if  the  Weekly  Envelope 
were  not  quite  so  corpulent  in  design?  What  if 
the  Surroundings  were  not  quite  so  restful  to  a 
person  of  his  aesthetic  Tendencies?  What  if  the 
Customers  were  not  quite  so  recbercbe  and  dis 
tingue?  (Ah  yes,  Monsieur,  it's  a  beautiful  lan 
guage.) 

Besides,  Jerry  was  going  to  turn  over  a  New 
Leaf.  To  this  end  he  bethought  himself  of  a  Plan 
of  Pseudo-Industry  that  would  surely  bring  him 
into  the  Good  Graces  of  the  Management.  The 
Plan,  stripped  of  its  Garnish  and  Varnish,  was 
simply  to  work  like  a  Beaver  while  he  was  being 
watched,  but  to  quit  propelling  the  Trowel  the 
moment  the  keen  Observer  hied  himself  to  Other 
Pastures.  When  the  Floorman  had  his  Eyes 
preened  on  Jerry  he  would  work  like  a  Troj  an.  He 
would  be  as  busy  as  a  Bee  in  a  Tar  Barrel.  But  all 
the  Work  he  did  when  he  was  not  under  Surveil 
lance  you  could  pack  into  an  Ant's  Ear  without 
impairing  its  hearing. 


Jerry  did  not  lay  any  special  emphasis  on  the 

invitation  until  he  hove  to  on  the  starboard  side 

of  Mr.  Hammock's  moorings  and  observed  the 

clouds  gathering  on  the  horizon 


The  Late  Mr.  Jazz 5* 

Great  idea,  Jerry!  But,  as  I  say,  he  was  some 
neat  little  Figurer  and  in  his  reckoning  he  forgot 
the  salient  fact  that  a  man 's  individual  Sales-book 
is  a  pretty  good  index  to  a  man's  individual  In 
dustry.  And  so — when  sales  in  Jerry's  Neck  of 
the  Woods  began  to  slump  diligently  and  with 
steadfast  fervor,  he  was  told  gently  but  firmly  that 
the  Management  would  have  to  dispense  with  his 
August  Presence  beginning  the  week  thereafter. 

By  this  time,  Jerry  was  beginning  to  lose  some 
of  his  Sunny  Disposition.  What  a  Thankless 
WTorld  this  was,  anyway!  Also,  he  had  begun  to 
cultivate  a  steadily  growing  Peeve  against  his 
erstwhile  Employers,  against  the  necessity  of  Mun 
dane  Toil,  against  the  Universe  as  a  whole  and 
against  Mr.  Jazz  himself.  If  anyone  would  fain 
nudge  him  in  the  Ribs  and  point  out  the  error  and 
terror  of  his  Ways,  Jerry  would  kindly  inform  the 
well-meaning  Counselor  that  unless  he  laid  off  of 
this  Billy  Sunday  stuff,  there  would  be  Flowers  at 
the  hou.se  of  Mr.  Would-Be-Evangelist  the  next 
morning,  but  he  would  not  be  there  to  smell  them. 

Even  when  he  got  a  job  as  an  "Extra"  in  the 
hit- 'em-lively  Establishment  of  Hank  &  Yank — he 


The  Late  Mr.  Jazz 


couldn't  understand  why  Mr.  Hank,  who  was 
commonly  acknowledged  a  Good  Sport,  should 
frown  when  he  saw  him  time  and  again  whirling 
away  the  hours  in  the  Cafe  Parfait  and  other  Per 
fumed  Palaces  for  Gladsome  Gliders. 

And  now,  dear  patient-eyed  reader,  I  should 
like  to  top  off  with  the  usual  Happy  Ending  and 
show  how  Jerry  Jazz  suddenly  took  another  Hitch 
in  his  Belt,  changed  his  Tune  and  watched  his  Step 
until  he  had  re-climbed  all  the  rungs  of  the  Fabled 
Ladder  that  leads  to  the  Balmy  Plains  of  Success. 
But,  alas,  I  have  gone  and  done  it  with  my  little 
Waterman  and  I  cannot  lie! 

So,  I  must  perforce  leave  Jerry  as  I  found  him 
the  other  night  —  poor  as  Job's  Turkey,  but  proud 
as  Lucifer  —  seemingly  carefree,  but  actually  wor 
ried  —  and  cussing  his  luck  to  the  lilting  tune  of  "I 
Should  Pucker  and  Be  Perturbed!" 

There  he  sat  eyeing  the  Dingy  Tint  of  his  Hem- 
Stitched  Room  with  disdain  and  wondering  what 
was  happening  to  this  Hectic  World  of  ours.  How 
could  the  Cocktails  he  imbibed  the  evening  before 
find  reflection  in  Indifference  to  Customers,  per 
haps  Discourtesy,  Lost  Sales  and  all-around 


The  Late  Mr.  Jazz 53 

Inefficiency?  Why  should  the  Boss  concern  himself 
with  what  Jerry  did  evenings — just  so  long  as  he 
showed  up  on  the  tick  of  the  clock  every  day? 
Where  were  the  Good  Old  Days  when  men  might 
play  Stud  and  drink  Suds  the  night  through  and 
show  up  bleary-eyed  but  game  the  morning  after? 
Good  night,  Jericho! — what  was  this  hifalutin' 
World  coming  to,  anyway? 

And  so,  in  the  fullness  of  his  bitter  heart,  Jerry 
the  Joy  Boy  laid  himself  down  to  sleep  and  dreamt 
— of  what?  Of  the  day  when  he  would  mend  his 
Ways  and  come  up  smiling?  Of  the  day  when  he 
would  flaunt  his  own  transcendent  Establishment 
in  the  Marts  of  Trade?  Nay,  nay,  Cleoportia! 
He  dreamt — ah!  Treacherous  Morpheus! — he 
dreamt  that  he  was  whisking  along  the  polished 
floor  of  the  Cafe  Par  fait  with  lithesome,  blithesome 
Dorothy  Dove! 

MORAL:  Time's  whirligig  turns  apples  of 
promise  into  ashes  of  regret. 


Go  Thou  and  Sin  Some  More 

WHEREIN  is  recorded  the  tale  of 

a  society  matron   'who  craved 

a  place  in  the  sun  but  who 

wouldn't  admit  it  for 

the  'teorld 


[55] 


I     GO  THOU  and  SIN 
I          SOME  MORE 

A  Fable  about  the  lady  who  loved  the  glare 

ONCE  upon  a  Time  there  was  a  Young  Soci 
ety  Matron  named  Clara  Calcium  who 
had  carved  for  herself  an  enviable  Niche 
in  Society's  Hall  of  Fame.  But,  Gadzooks  and 
Gosh  All  Fish-Hooks ! — how  she  did  hate  Publicity ! 

That  is,  she  gave  you  that  Impression  sub  rosa. 
But  deep  down  in  her  Heart  of  Hearts  (Boy,  page 
Mr.  Trump!)  she  reveled  in  it.  She  laved  herself 
in  it  and  sated  her  Soul  with  it.  To  her  it  was 
Ambrosia,  Nectar  and  Mellin's  all  in  one  Airy 
Package. 

The  only  Medico  in  the  World  who  could  soothe 
her  Social  Ills  and  Aches  was  Doctor  Publicity. 
For  he  alone  could  dispense  the  Celestial  Balm  of 
a  Three  Column  Caption  and  an  Art  Photograph 
(Copyright  by  Underhood  &  Underhood)  on  the 
page  dedicated  to  the  Escapades  of  the  Elite. 

It  was  a  case  of  twinge-twinge,  tingle-tingle. 
Then  her  Social  Secretary  would  tinkle-tinkle  a 
la  Alexander  Graham,  and  there — from  out  the 


5  8  Go  Thou  and 

Society  Page  of  tomorrow 's  Daily  Screech — Milady 
Calcium  would  twinkle-twinkle  at  you. 

Whenever  she  got  unusually  wrought  up  and  had 
a  Fit  of  Nerves  she  wouldn't  give  vent  to  her  Out 
raged  Feelings  by  opening  up  the  Lachrymal 
Ducts.  Nay,  nay,  Lucina — the  Water  Rate  was 
too  high! 

Instead,  she  would  pour  her  Story  into  the 
listening,  not  to  say  glistening,  Ear  of  the  Society 
Editor.  And  what  a  Dear  Little  Creature  she 
was!  So  sweet  and  sympathetic  and  so  full  of 
Discernment  and  Understanding.  My,  my! 

If  you  got  to  know  this  Sublime  Personage  quite 
well  she  would  wax  confidential  and  tell  you  how 
she  just  loathed  to  be  interviewed.  But — 

She  wouldn't  tell  you  how  many  times  she  had 
set  her  Little  Big  Ben  so  she  could  come  out  of 
Morpheus'  Embrace  betimes  and  see  what  that 
fussy  and  fuzzy-looking  Sob  Sister  had  said  about 
her.  Yea,  verily,  the  Ways  of  Society  are  devious. 

She  had  a  Creed  of  her  own — did  Clara  Calcium. 
She  paid  attention  to  Trifles  on  the  Theory  that  a 
Genius  must  have  an  Infinite  Capacity  for  taking 
Pains  as  well  as  Gains.  And  she  took  both! 


Sin  Some  More  5  9 

She  had  dipped  deep  enough  into  the  Chafing 
Dish  of  Ancient  History  to  know  that  the  Cackle 
of  a  Goose  had  saved  Rome  from  surprise  and  ruin. 
So  she  kept  her  Aural  Appendage  pretty  close  to 
the  Turf  and  never  passed  up  a  Bet. 

She  knew  that  Silence  is  Golden  and  this  ex 
plained  why  so  many  of  her  Sisters  in  Crime  were 
always  broke.  And  she  knew  that  Pluck  always 
wins — especially  if  she  did  the  Plucking. 

As  a  Purveyor  of  Things  subtle  and  significant 
she  ranked  Ace-high.  She  operated  on  the  con 
servative  Theory  that  one  Touch  of  Gossip  makes 
the  whole  World  chin.  While  her  Daughter  Caprice  . 
who  had  just  issued  from  Madame  Veneer's  Fin 
ishing  School  (only  highest  priced  Varnishes  used) 
was  wont  to  flit  around  the  House  in  Imaginary 
Draperies  on  the  nude  and  rude  Theory  that  one 
Yard  of  Georgette  Crepe  covers  a  Multitude  of 
Shins. 

Most  of  us  are  lucky  if  our  Five  Senses  are  up  to 
Snuff — if  not  to  Sniffles.  But  our  Dear  Little 
Clara  was  gifted  with  a  Sixth  Sense — a  Sense  of 
Rumor. 

She  was  adroit  at  starting  Rumors  about  the 


.  .  .  so  she  could  come  out  of  Mor 
pheus'  embrace  betimes  and  see 
what  that  fussy  and  fuzzy-looking 
sob  sister  had  said  about  her 


Sin  Some  More  6 1 

Betrothal  of  her  Offspring  Clarice  to  every  betitled 
and  bedizzened  Notable  in  the  Land.  It  got  so 
bad  that,  to  keep  tab  of  the  Counts  in  the  Case, 
her  Social  Secretary  had  to  buy  a  Burroughs. 

As  for  the  nominal  Master  of  the  House,  he  was 
just  that — nominal!  He  began,  and  ended,  there. 
His  Club  Comrades  labeled  him  a  Regular  Fellow 
— the  kind  of  Chap  who  could  warm  the  Cockles 
of  your  Heart.  But  with  a  Wife  of  Clara's  fiery 
Type  he  had  about  as  much  Chance  as  the  Prover 
bial  Snowball  has  to  be  congealed  in  the  Nether 
Regions. 

He  had  been  in  Hymen 's  Bondage  long  enough 
to  know  that  Men  think  they  fall  in  Love  (what 
ever  that  is)  when  they  really  fall  for  it.  And 
during  those  rare,  peaceful  Spasms  when  Clara 
Dear  wasn't  yanking  him  up  for  something  or 
other,  he  would  flop  wearily  into  his  Library  Chair 
and  wade  through  the  Eritannica  looking  for  Close- 
ups  of  Savages  who  had  never  adopted  the  Chainy 
Custom  of  Matrimony. 

He  observed  invariably  how  happy  they  looked. 
And  then  he  would  wish — but,  oh  Shucks,  if  Wishes 
were  Aeroplanes,  Elephants  would  fly! 


62  Go  Thou  and 

But  to  Clara,  her  Hubby  was  just  a  diddering, 
doddering  Dunce — a  blithering,  blubbering,  bloom- 
in*  Idiot  who  had  kept  out  of  the  Psychopathic 
Ward  only  because  of  his  plethoric  Dough  Bag. 
In  short,  Good  Wife's  Opinion  of  Friend  Husband 
was  summed  up  in  that  great  cryptic  expression, 
ne  coco  domo. 

Clara's  chief  Hobby  was  to  pan  Hubby.  And 
whenever  she  pulled  out  her  Assay  Kit  he  essayed 
not  a  Murmur.  For,  didn't  he  savvy  that  her 
Analysis  would  show  lots  and  lots  of  Solid  Ore  but 
not  even  a  pallid  Streak  o^  Gray  Matter?  So, 
what  was  the  Diffy-diff? 

Whenever  Clara  could  call  a  Quorum  she  would 
lament  that  her  Hubby — whom  everybody  thought 
was  just  the  Grandest  Thing  Ever — wasn't  a  bit 
sympathetic.  It  was  funny — wasn't  it? — how  a 
Man  could  get  a  Rep  for  being  kind  and  attentive 
and  considerate  when  he  was  really  morose  and 
crabby  and  grumpy? 

And  besides,  it  was  hard — wasn't  it? — to  find 
some  one  who  really  understood  you — some  one  who 
could  peer  into  the  Windows  of  your  Soul  with 
Real  Feeling — some  one  who  could  gaze  into  your 


Sin  Some  More  63 

Limpid  Pools  and  rave  about  the  Heavenly  Ripples 
reflected  therein?  Y-e-s,  it  was  hard — wasn't  it? 

And  then  the  Quorum  would  retire  into  Secret 
Session  and  aver  that  the  Poor  Dear  didn't  know 
how  fortunate  she  really  was.  If  she  only  had 
their  Beastly  Hubbies  to  deal  with — what  then? 
Why,  she'd  have  some  real,  honest-to-badness 
cause  for  her  Outbursts  of  Poutish  Petulance.  So 
she  might  as  well  put  that  in  her  Lamp  and  light  it. 
Now,  there!  Flicker,  flicker! 

Among  the  Slavics  in  the  Household  it  was  Ye 
Common  Gossip  that  whenever  Monsieur  Hubby 
tried  to  pull  the  Anvil  Chorus  on  any  of  her  Am 
bitious  Schemes,  Madame  Clara  would  be  sure  to 
register  Deep  Disdain. 

Then  she  would  dam  this  up  with  some  mild, 
imported  Profanity  and  inform  him  that  she 
didn't  want  him  to  look  at  her  in  that  Tone  of 
Voice. 

And  that  was  all  there  was  to  it!  By  the  Time 
she  got  through  he  was  hoisted  on  his  own  Petard. 
So  what,  pretty  prithee,  was  the  Use? 

Altogether,  Hubby  was  rather  a  prosaic,  matter- 
of-fact  Chap  whose  Idea  of  a  loudly  quiet  Time  was  , 


It  was  hard — wasn  't  itt — to  find  someone  who 

really  understood  you — someone  who  could 

gaze  into  your  limpid  pools  and  rave  about 

the  heavenly  ripples  reflected  therein 


Sin  Some  More  65 

to  puff  away  at  a  Choice  Havana  the  while  he 
reveled  in  the  Intricacies  of  Ruskin  and  the  Subtle 
ties  of  Addison. 

He  went  in  for  Sports  about  as  much  as  Three 
Star  Hennessy  went  in  for  Soft  Drinks.  He  knew 
as  much  about  Bagging  Quail,  for  instance,  as  a 
Buddhist  Priest  knows  about  Kelly  Pool. 

But  Clara  Dear  insisted  that  he  be  accoutred  in 
full  Hunting  Regalia  so  as  to  get  one  of  those  "I- 
don't-really- care-to-pose"  Pictures  in  fbe^Sbeeps. 
head  Review  and  other  Periodicals  perused  by  the 
Coupon-clipping  Contingent. 

And  what  a  busy-dizzy  Clubwoman  our  Clara 
was!  Every  time  Billy  Sunday  calendared  in  to 
clean  up  the  Town,  she  would  have  the  Oily  Presi 
dent  of  her  Club  anoint  her  Chairman  of  the 
Committee  for  the  Suppression  of  Vice.  This 
would,  of  course,  necessitate  relatively  frequent 
Limousine  Excursions  into  Regions  not  especially 
covered  in  our  Eighth  Grade  Geographies. 

Upon  such  Occasions  she  would  volunteer  the 
Sinformation  that  she  didn't  mind  being  dragged 
through  Miles  of  Vice  to  glimpse  a  few  Rods  of 
Virtue.  And  besides,  one  would  be  apt  to  see  so 


66 Go  Thou  and 

many  i-n-t-e-r-e-s-t-i-n-g  Things  (Class  in  Deep 
Breathing  will  now  exhale). 

So  you  can  see  that,  all  in  all,  our  Clara  was  a 
Live  Wire  when  it  came  to  distributing  the  Current 
of  her  Thoughts  about  Town. 

She  Knew  that  a  Man  is  as  Old  as  his  Arteries 
and  she  added  that  a  Woman  is  as  Old  as  her 
Knees.  Accordingly,  she  did  not  propose  to  be 
come  fat  and  flabby  and  fatigued  at  forty.  Neither 
did  she  propose  to  relapse  into  the  pudgy-squdgy 
Attitude  assumed  by  those  Chronic  Society 
Matrons  whose  Genuflections  are  confined  to  their 
Activities  in  the  Rocking  Chair  Squadron. 

All  of  which  is  designed  to  show  that  our  Dear 
Little  Clara  was  muchly  human.  And  whether  it 
was  a  Poodle  Dog  Show  she  was  fostering,  or  a 
Red  Cross  Benefit,  or  an  Ultra-New  Thought  Club, 
or  an  Anti-Noise  or  Anti-Smoke  Campaign,  or  a 
New  Home  for  Wayward  Waifs — she  would  al 
ways  have  everything  rigged  up  to  the  Queen's 
Delirium  so  that  the  Sob  Squad  could  go  to  it  in 
Big  League  Fashion. 

But,  alas,  when  the  Poipers  did  not  come  through 
with  the  Printed  Delicacies  she  so  relished — that 


Sin  Some  More  67 

was  Clara's  Cue  to  register  Indignation  done  to  a 
turn  and  served  on  a  platter  of  art.  And  whether 
she  got  a  Half  Inch  Squib  or  a  Half  Page  Spread 
she  would  always  murmur  petulantly,  "The 
stingy  things !" 

And  yet,  it  was  funny — wasn't  it? — how  she  did 
hate  Publicity! 

MORAL  :  T'he  bigger  they  are,  tbe  harder 
they  fall— for  it. 


The  Fiasco  of  Flavius  Flivver 

WHEREIN  //  recorded  the  tale  of 

the  fledgling  who  tried  to  pitch 

in  the  big  leagues  before  he  had 

farmed  a  bench  in 

the  bushes 


The  FIASCO 
FLAVIUS  FLIVVER 

A  Fable  about  the  prodigy  who  petered  out 

ONCE  Upon  a  Time  there  was  a  Chap  named 
Flavius  Flivver  who  was  a  regular  Chip  off 
the  Old  Block — with  Emphasis  on  the 
Block.  If  anything,  he  was  Chipper.  What  he 
didn't  know  about  Advertising  and  Selling  wasn't 
carved  on  Cleopatra's  Needle.  And  there  is  con 
siderable  Carving  on  said  Obelisk. 

Flavius  had  just  reached  the  Eligible  Age  where 
he  was  being  invited  out  to  all  the  House  Parties 
engineered  by  meaningful  and  mercenary-minded 
Mammas.  Upon  such  Occasions  he  would  be 
come  the  Center  of  an  animated  Group  composed 
largely  of  Ripening  Dianas  and  Venuses  de  Stylo. 

Their  Cue  it  was  to  hand  out  Plaudits  Aplenty 
— to  reel  off  Laughter  upon  the  slightest  Provoca 
tion — and,  further,  to  assure  guileless  Flavius  that 
he  was  just  too  clever  for  anything! 

No  matter  what  Flavius  said — whether  he  spilled 
something  from  Last  Year's  Life  or  pulled  a  Pun 
that  had  come  out  of  the  Maternity  Ward  about 


7  2  The  Fiasco  of 

the  same  time  he  had — the  Appreciative  Audience 
was  there  with  the  Ripples  of  Laughter  and  Stac 
cato  of  Applause. 

You  see,  dear  reader,  our  Flavius  was  born  under 
the  Auspices  of  a  Constellation  his  Official  Astrolo 
ger  couldn't  exactly  locate;  but  everybody  else 
could.  The  common,  Milk-and-Mush  Name  for 
this  particular  Starless  Star  was  Nobody  Home. 

The  morning  after  such  a  Successful  Seance, 
Flavius  would  show  up  at  the  Office  with  his  Cere 
bellum  Stock  away  above  par.  Not  even  the  Rank 
Rot  he  doled  out  in  his  Dictation  nor  the  Bulls 
in  Lingo  his  demure  Stenog  corrected,  could  yank 
him  off  his  Pearly  Pedestal. 

There  were  Two  Things  about  which  Flavius 
would  wax  most  enthusiastic.  One  was  his  Alma 
Mater  and  the  other  was  Flavius  Flivver.  Start 
him  off  on  Any  Subject  and  he  would  be  sure  to 
wind  up  with  the  Big  Discourse  on  Flavius  Flivver, 
A.  B.  Which  meant,  in  the  Parlance  of  those  who 
knew  him  well,  Flavius  Flivver,  All  Bone. 

While  at  College,  Flavius  had  become  quite 
adept  at  the  Fox-trot  and  could  execute  any  Gyra 
tion  or  Gondola-glide  a  la  Vernon  Castle.  But  the 


Flavins  Flivver  7  3 

Pedantic  Profs  in  their  own  learned  fashion  had 
examined  his  Think-Tank  and  found  it  quite 
empty. 

So  that  about  the  Time  his  Finals  were  due, 
Flavius  Senior,  who  was  a  pretty  shrewd  Old  Boy 
at  that — out  of  sheer  Goodness  of  Heart  and  as 
his  Meagre  Tithe  to  the  God  of  Learning — an 
nounced  a  Munificent  Gift  to  the  University  which 
cloistered  his  Filial  Offspring. 

Thus,  by  means  devious  and  otherwise,  Flavius 
cajoled  his  beloved  Alma  Mater  into  giving  him 
a  Sheepskin  with  his  Name  lettered  in  Old  English, 
and  which  would  look  swell  in  his  Den,  right  next 
to  the  Picture  of  that  Cutey  Pony  in  the  latest 
Giggly-Girl  Show. 

After  a  Finishing  Trip  Abroad,  Flavius  wasn  't 
any  too  anxious  to  enter  the  Flivver  Factory  but 
Pater  insisted.  Accordingly,  Flavius  was  made 
Father's  Official  Oracle  and  Coadjutor  in  Crime. 

When  Flavius  entered  the  Flivver  Fort  he  was 
asked  his  Forte  which  was  writing  the  Advertising. 
For  how  else  could  he  disburse  the  Wisdom  of  the 
Ages  and  the  Prattle  of  the  Sages  that  he  had 
stored  up  in  his  Mental  Silo  ?  To  be  sure,  he  had 


Upon  such  occasions  Flavins  would  become  the 

center  of  an  animated  group  composed  largely 

of  Ripening  Dianas  and  Venuses  de  Stylo 


Flavius  Flivver  75 

been  Joke  Editor  of  his  College  Paper  and  he  knew 
how  to  cull  Humor  out  of  the  acknowledged  Cul- 
leries  by  the  Simple  Expedient  of  a  Scissors  and  a 
Pot  of  Paste.  Besides,  hadn't  he  read  a  Raft  of 
Books  on  Efficiency  and  the  Psychology  of  Adver 
tising  and  a  lot  of  other  Fool  Stuff? 

The  Advertising  Manager,  to  whom  the  Noviti 
ate  was  turned  over  for  bridling,  asked  him  if  he 
could  write  good,  sane,  Yankee-Doodle  Copy. 
Could  he?  Well,  rather!  Didn't  he  know  the 
I.  C.  S.  Advertising  Handbook  from  kivver  to 
ki  vver  ? 

The  Copy  turned  out  by  Fledgling  Flavius  was 
just  too  terrible  for  Words.  The  Advertising 
Manager,  who  had  cut  his  Wisdom  Teeth  long 
before  Flavius  had  acquired  his  Milkers,  got  a 
polite  Memorandum  from  the  Purchasing  Agent 
asking  him  for  the  Love  of  his  Annual  Report  to 
go  easy  on  the  Blue  Pencils. 

Flavius  had  never  been  used  to  such  Rough 
Treatment  and  he  didn't  propose  to  stand  the 
Gaff.  He  would  show  the  old  carping  Crab  his 
Place  in  the  Setting  Sun! 

Alas,  things  came  to  such  a  Blue  Pass  that  one 


7  6  The  Fiasco  of 

Dark  Day  Flavius  invaded  his  Father's  Sanctum 
and  averred  that  his  Chief  required  the  services  of 
an  Oculist  and  didn't  know  it.  He  affirmed  that 
the  Old  Duffer  was  afflicted  with  Myopia  and 
couldn't  tell  good  Copy  from  bad.  And,  further, 
that  his  Business  Perspective  needed  a  new  Coat 
ing  of  Mental  Valspar. 

The  Poor  Lad  took  it  so  to  heart  that  Dear  Old 
Dad  was  constrained  to  request  the  Master  of 
Advertising  Ceremonies  to  abdicate  in  favor  of  his 
Heir  and  Assign  Forever.  It  was  a  case  of  any 
thing  to  keep  Peace  in  the  Family. 

The  next  morning  Flavius'  Chest  Expansion 
registered  a  material  Increase.  Now  he  was  in  his 
Element!  Now  watch  him  pull  a  Stunt  or  two! 
He  would  make  the  Welkin  ring!  He  would  smite 
the  Cymbals  and  call  the  Clans!  He  would  make 
the  Pavements  resound  to  the  Thwack-Thwack  of 
Flivver's  Fawncy  Footwear!  His  Stuff  was  going 
to  bang  the  Ultimate  Consumer  right  on  the 
Cabeza  between  the  Two  Glimmers !  Yo  Ho,  and 
a  Bottle  of  Rummy  Ink! 

About  the  First  Act  the  New  Prodigy  performed 
was  to  put  the  Kibosh  on  the  elaborate  System  of 


Flavins  Flivver  77 

Follow-Ups  designed  to  line  up  Prospective  Deal 
ers.  He  argued  that  if  a  Fellow  didn't  buy  right 
off  the  bat,  what  was  the  Use  of  wasting  more 
Time  on  him?  And,  besides,  didn't  the  Men  on 
the  Road  get  around  Twice  a  Year  and  jog  these 
Fellows  up  ? 

Act  Number  Two  was  to  ring  down  the  Curtain 
on  the  Trade  Paper  Advertising.  What  good  did 
it  do,  anyway?  And,  again,  he  could  use  that 
Money  in  some  corking  good  Magazines  read  by 
Debutantes,  Dilettantes  and  other  Damphool 
Decoctions  of  Society's  Crucible.  Where  did 
these  plain,  plebeian  Merchants  come  in  for  Atten 
tion  anyway? 

Act  Number  Three  was  to  use  One  Cent  Postage 
on  his  Sales  Letters  because  they  weren  't  read  any 
how.  And  where,  prithee,  was  the  Sense  in  using 
Tv/o  Cent  Postage  on  such  Haphazard  Stuff? 

Act  Number  Four  was  to  put  out  their  New 
Catalog  on  Phoney  Stock  that  made  his  Halftones 
look  about  as  clean  and  dapper  as  a  bleary-eyed 
Compositor  the  Morning  After. 

Act  Number  Five  was  to  guillotine  the  series  of 
Dealer-Helps  which  heretofore  had  been  part  of 


His  stuff  was  going  to  bang  the  Ultimate 

Consumer  right  on  the  cabeza  between  the 

two  glimmers.  Yo  ho,  and  a  bottle  of 

rummy  ink! 


Flavins  Flivver  79 

the  regular  Advertising  Program.  Instead,  he 
hired  a  Cheap  Artist  to  get  up  a  Dandy  Poster  that 
made  their  new  Fall  Model  look  like  a  Futuristic 
Interpretation  of  the  Map  of  Italy. 

And  just  look  at  all  the  Money  he  was  saving  the 
Firm!  Zowie — wouldn't  he  make  some  Hit  with 
the  Old  Man !  He  could  picture  in  his  Mind 's  Eye 
how  the  Governor  would  smile  all  over  and  pat  him 
on  the  Back,  alright,  alright! 

The  Merry  Carnage  continued  until  one  Perfect 
Day  when  Flavius  was  summoned  rather  peremp 
torily  to  the  Sanctum  Sanctorum  and  confronted 
with  some  Cold-Turkey  Facts  warranted  to  chill 
his  Appetite  for  Dinner.  It  seemed  that  Sales  had 
been  hitting  the  Toboggan  something  fierce;  and 
while  the  Big  Chief  wasn't  developing  Pedal 
Frigidity  he  naturally  wanted  to  know  whence 
cometh  this  awful  Slump  in  Business. 

Flavius  rejoined  that  it  couldn't  be  the  Adver 
tising  because  look  at  the  Clever  Stuff  he  was 
running  in  Town  Tattle  and  Newport  Nips.  Grace 
ful,  stunning  and  tendril-like,  dontcherknowl 

But  gruff  Old  Pater  called  the  Turn  by  present 
ing  some  concrete  Tabulations  from  Department 


8  o         The  End  of  Flavius  Flivver 

Heads  indicating  a  woeful  Lack  of  Interest  upon 
the  part  of  their  Dealers.  This  was  accompanied 
by  the  Suggestion,  which  was  respectfully  sub 
mitted,  that  it  was  about  Time  for  some  one  else 
to  cut  the  Cards  and  deal  out  a  Helping  Hand  to 
the  languishing  Retailer. 

The  Upshot  of  it  all  was  that  the  hard-headed 
Advertising  Chief  was  offered  a  big  Boost  in  Salary 
if  he  would  only  come  back  and  unravel  the 
Tangled  Skeins. 

And  as  for  Flavius  Flivver  himself,  Dear  Old 
Dad  has  bought  him  a  Luxuriant  Yacht  to  cruise 
around  in  until  he  comes  to.  The  Old  Man  says 
it's  cheaper,  too! 

MORAL:  It's   a  wise  father    who   knows 

when   to   keep  the  prodigal  son   off  the 

home  preserves. 


All  is  Not  Bird  that  Twitters 

WHEREIN  is  recorded  the  tale  of 

an  oldish  bird  who  was  good 

to  look  upon  but  who  never 

chirped  an  original  tune 

in  his  life 


[83] 


ALL  is  not  BIRD  that 
TWITTERS 

A  Fable  about  the  smooth  article  'who  wasn't 

JONATHAN  FRONT,  Esquire,  was  the  height 
of  decorum.    From  the  tip-top  of  his  Bruns- 
wick-Balke-Collender  to  the  shined  point  of  his 
hand-made  Shoes,  Jonathan  was  an  Immaculate 
Decoction.     He  affected  Spats,  Vest  Edging,  a 
nonchalant  Attitude,  a  mellow  Voice  and  a  deci 
dedly  Englishy  Air  that  came  in  very  handy  upon 
Occasions  numerous  and  plenty  as  the  following 
narrative  will  show. 

No  one  could  gainsay  the  fact  that  Sir  Jonathan 
was  a  Personage  of  eminent  extraction.  He  looked 
it.  Whether  you  piped  him  at  close  Range  or  spied 
him  at  a  Distance  a  la  lorgnette,  he  was  always 
dressed  with  meticulous  Care  and  Exactitude. 
(Ah  yes,  Maisie,  bring  in  the  tea  tray.) 

In  short,  Jonathan  was  there  with  the  Pomp 
alright,  alright — but  the  Belfry?  Ah,  wattawoil! 
If  you  tapped  his  Top-piece  for  some  Real  Matter 
you  didn't  get  any  more  Response  than  if  you  had 
been  knocking  at  the  door  of  the  Royal  Tomb  in 


86 A II Is  Not  Bird 

the  Pyramid  of  Cheops.  His  only  Tenant  was  the 
famous  Firm  of  Mahogany,  Ebony  &  Solid  Dome. 

But,  none  the  less,  Jonathan  did  not  let  you  in 
on  that.  Quite  to  the  contrary,  he  gave  one  the 
Impression  that  he  was  widely  read,  had  traveled 
much,  had  suffered  not  at  all,  and  had  acquired 
that  ineffable  Poise  and  s avoir  fair e  which  come 
only  to  a  Man  of  the  World. 

Broach  any  Topic  of  Discussion  and  Jonathan 
would  fetch  out  his  acquiescent  Smile  and  his  in 
evitable  Nod  of  "Ah  yes,  indeed — of  course,  of 
course ! "  Whether  you  were  raving  about  a  Paint 
ing  by  Whistler  or  a  new  Whistling  Act  on  the 
Orpheum  didn't  make  much  difference.  He  was 
quite  on  Intimate  Terms  with  either  or  both. 

You  might  be  talking  about  an  Essay  by  Nietzsche 
or  the  Batting  Average  of  the  latest  Baseball  Phe- 
nom  but  you  couldn't  stump  Mr.  Jonathan.  He 
was  right  there  with  the  Verbal  Burro  and  followed 
you  up  the  Trail.  Ah  yes,  indeed! 

And  travel?  To  be  sure,  Jonathan  had  never 
gone  in  for  those  stupid  Culinary  Tours  but  he  had 
been  pretty  much  everywhere  you  mentioned. 
Hadn't  he  lunched  with  Lord  Southcliff  the  last 


That  Twitters  87 

time  he  was  in  Lunnon  ?  Hadn't  he  munched  over 
the  Affairs  of  the  Day  with  Baron  Munchausen  at 
his  Castle  on  the  River  Zinfandel?  Hadn't  he 
nibbled  many  a  bag  of  Pop-corn  Parisienne  along 
the  Bois  de  Bologna  on  many  a  balmy  summer 
awfternoon?  And  as  for  Westminster  Abbey — 
gracious  yes!  He  knew  the  Distinguished  Gentle 
man  long  before  he  had  moved  over  from  the  East 
Side. 

By  this  time  you  should  be  on  Nodding  Terms 
with  the  smooth,  suave  Specimen  in  question.  So, 
then,  let's  moosie  on. 

Jonathan  Front  was,  by  Chance  and  Necessity, 
a  Floorman  in  the  large  and  imposing  Establish 
ment  of  Marshall,  Vale  &  Co.  His  particular 
Function  it  was  to  keep  an  alert  and  omniscient 
Eye  on  the  Horizon  of  his  Particular  Department 
and,  truth  to  tell,  Jonathan  was  very  able  in  a 
monocle  way. 

He  had  come  to  Marshall  Vale's  with  the  Best 
Intentions  in  the  World  and  with  Impeccable  Cre 
dentials  from  his  previous  Employers  informing 
Mr.  Whom-it-may-concern  that  Mr.  Jonathan 
Front  was  a  Man  of  Splendid  Address,  Gracious 


Jonathan  could  say,  "Ah  yes,  sir,  that's  quite 
alright, "in  a  voice  that  made  Mrs.  Panne  Vel 
vet's  Soothing  Syrup  seem  like  harsh  treatment 
indeed  for  a  colicky  critter 


That  Twitters  89 

Manner,  and  Very  Able  in  his  Way.  Have  the 
Butcher  cut  all  these  Fatuous  Adjectives  away 
from  the  Real  Meat  and  what  do  you  get  ?  You're 
right:  you  get  T-bone! 

Jonathan  had  been  brought  up  in  the  School 
that  figured  a  Gracious  Air  and  a  Knowing  Stare 
had  it  all  over  the  Real  Goods  when  it  came  to 
Ralph  Waldo's  famous  Monologue  on  the  Pay 
Envelope  Question. 

He  could  say,  "Ah  yes,  sir,  that's  quite 
alright,"  in  a  Voice  that  made  Mrs.  Panne  Velvet's 
Soothing  Syrup  seem  like  Harsh  Treatment  indeed 
for  a  Colicky  Critter.  There  is  no  doubt  that  in 
the  olden  days  of  Hoop-skirted  Ladies  and  Silver- 
buckled  Gallants  Jonathan  would  have  been  a 
Raging  Riot.  But,  it  so  happeneth  that  in  the 
present  era  whereof  I  speak,  Jonathan  was  about 
as  essential  to  our  economic  system  as  Curry 
Combs  in  a  Garage. 

The  tragic  part  of  it  is  that  Jonathan  thought 
he  had  the  Establishment  buffaloed  as  to  his  Real 
Merit.  You  certainly  had  to  hand  him  a  Croix  de 
Guerre  for  the  (Superb  Way  he  fussed  and  bustled 
around  and  the  Suave  Manner  in  which  he  dis- 


9° All  Is  Not  Bird 

pensed  his  peculiar  brand  of  O-Cedar  Mop  Diplo 
macy.  But  everyone  in  the  shop,  from  the  Pert 
Youngster  who  was  mascot  of  the  team  to  the  Big 
Twirler  himself,  had  Jonathan's  Real  Record  in 
scribed  on  their  Mental  Score  Cards — and  don't  you 
forget  it! 

Nor  must  you  suppose  from  this  Appraisal  of 
Jonathan  that  he  had  hurdled  into  his  Forties 
without  any  Definite  Accomplishments.  Hardly 
so,  hardly  so!  There  were  a  number  of  things  in 
which  he  was  a  Past  Master.  For  example: 

When  it  came  to  keeping  furiously  busy  and 
accomplishing  nothing  Jonathan  was  nothing  less 
than  a  Twenty-first  Century  Marvel.  And  when 
it  came  to  the  grand  old  game  of  saying  "  Yessir" 
to  every  Idea,  idiotic  or  otherwise,  submitted  for 
his  August  Consideration,  he  was  nothing  less  than 
a  Labor  Day  Celebration.  And  as  for  horning  in 
on  the  Attainments  and  Accomplishments  of  Mar 
shall,  Vale  &  Co. — and,  more  especially,  his  Par 
ticular  Department — Jonathan  simply  had  all  the 
other  Olympic  Runners  washed  off  the  Track. 

Also — and  this  you  may  already  have  surmised 
— when  it  came  to  the  Highly  Polished  Art  of 


That  Twitters 


Passing  the  Buck,  Jonathan  Front,  Esquire,  was 
Grand  Chancellor  Commander  of  The  Dramatic 
Order  of  Those  Who  Doeth  Not  but  Passeth  On. 
No  Fleck  on  his  Regalia,  no  Blot  on  his  Escutcheon, 
no  Black  Mark  on  his  Report  Card  —  nay,  nay, 
Therese  —  not  if  he  could  yelp  it! 

In  the  very  nature  of  things,  Jonathan  had  every 
reason  to  exult  over  the  Smooth  Current  of  his  Job 
at  Marshall  Vale's.  Came  a  day,  however,  when 
all  was  turned  into  Gall  and  Wormwood;  for  there 
came  to  him  the  Poignant  Realization  that  al 
though  nearly  every  one  else  who  had  entered  the 
Sacred  Precincts  of  this  Department  had  moved 
up  Several  Pegs,  he  was  still  taking  his  Daily  Con 
stitutional  as  Floorman. 

He  remembered,  too,  that  none  of  these  Fellows 
had  any  specially  Pink  Ribbons  tied  to  their 
Physical  Make-up.  In  fact,  he  distinctly  recalled 
Joe  Martin  who  was  positively  homely.  Tecumseh 
Joe  they  called  him  —  and  a  Scrapper  from  the  word 
Go.  Yet,  somehow,  he  had  managed  to  scalp  his 
way  to  the  Head  of  his  own  Department.  And, 
come  to  think  of  it,  Tecumseh  Joe  had  never 
flopped  for  every  Idea  propounded  by  the  Man- 


And  as  for  horning  in  on  the  attainments  and 

accomplishments  of  the  firm.  Jonathan  simply 

had  all  the  other  Olympic  runners  washed 

off  the  track 


That  Twitters  93 

agement  although,  when  he  did,  he  was  certainly 
a  Fiery  Enthusiast. 

And  then  there  was  Tom  Lively  who  had  never 
pulled  any  Blue  Ribbons  at  the  Handsome  Harry 
Contests  and  whose  Schooling  had  been  sadly 
neglected.  Fact  is,  Tom  lacked  all  the  Refined 
Touches  and  the  Manicured  Niceties  that  belong 
to  a  Gentleman  of  the  Blood.  And  yet,  in  spite 
of  this  Appalling  Handicap,  Tom  had  Big  Benned 
his  way  into  the  High-Salaried  Realms  Above. 

By  the  time  this  Streak  of  Light  broke  through 
the  Brain-Fog  that  constantly  hovered  around 
Jonathan,  he  had  bucked  up  enough  Courage  to 
ask  the  Big  Boss  why,  whence  and  wherefore  his 
Permanent  Residence  in  the  Stagnant  Pool  Below. 
The  Boss  had  a  Heart  and  didn't  want  to  hurt 
Jonathan's  Feelings;  but  Jonathan  insisted  on  the 
Bitter  Truth,  no  matter  how  much  the  Iodine  of 
the  Boss*  Remarks  might  smart. 

So  the  Boss  began  rather  irrelevantly  by  asking 
Jonathan  if  he  had  ever  noticed  that  the  Biggest 
Apples  in  this  World  come  to  the  Chap  who  climbs 
right  up  after  them  and  who  doesn't  give  a  rap  if 
his  Trousers  do  rip  on  the  Upward  Climb. 


94 All  Is  Not  Bird 

Having  reached  out  with  this  High  One,  the 
Boss  assured  Jonathan  that  he  did  not  wish  to 
cast  any  Asparagus  upon  the  latter's  Ability  and 
Ambitions.  At  the  same  time,  he  had  often  won 
dered  whether  Jonathan  realized  that,  while  a 
certain  amount  of  Front  is  all  right  in  a  Man, 
what  he  has  Back  of  his  Ears  counts  for  infinitely 
more.  A  Smooth  Front,  affirmed  the  Boss,  was 
well  and  good  for  a  Chap  who  aspired  to  a  Quick- 
Lunch  Reputation  but  was  very  much  the  Fromage 
for  one  who  aspired  to  be  a  Real  Business  Man  of 
Parts.  You  could  nibble  a  Five-Minute  Lunch 
without  wising  up  to  the  Culinary  Deficiencies  of 
the  Establishment  but  you  couldn't  wade  through 
a  Ten-Course  Dinner  without  savvying  up  to  the 
fact  that  the  Chef  was  either  a  Wonder  or  a  False 
Alarm. 

By  the  time  the  Boss  got  to  the  Finger  Bowl 
Portion  of  his  Analogy,  Jonathan  looked  rather 
giddy  in  the  Gills  but  the  Surgeon  kept  right  on 
with  the  Operation  regardless  of  the  Shock  to  the 
Patient.  He  asked  Jonathan  point  blank  as  to 
whether  he  had  ever  made  an  Original  Constructive 
Suggestion  for  the  betterment  of  the  Institution. 


That  Twitters 95 

How  had  he  proven  himself  more  valuable  to  the 
Firm?  What  unusual  Responsibilities  had  he 
shouldered?  What  if  a  Man  did  tackle  a  Thing 
and  fall  down — didn't  Jonathan  realize  that  a 
Man's  Success  is  usually  built  on  the  Edifice  of 
his  Mistakes? 

And  ah  yes,  indeed,  when  had  Jonathan  had 
enough  Temerity  to  say  "No!"  to  any  Suggestion 
he  didn't  believe  in?  Didn't  he  realize  that  People 
admired  Other  People  who  had  the  Courage  of 
their  Convictions?  And,  Jumping  Jehosophat,  if 
a  Man  didn't  have  any  Convictions,  why  didn't 
he  attend  a  Clearance  Sale  at  Sing  Sing  or  some 
other  Idea  Seminary  and  get  some? 

In  fine,  the  Boss  made  it  quite  clear  and  trans 
parent  to  Jonathan  that,  so  far  as  Putting  Up  a 
Front  was  concerned,  he  was  nothing  less  than  a 
Whale;  but  that,  when  it  came  to  Initiative  and 
Business  Acumen,  he  was  not  only  a  Poor  Fish 
but  a  Poverty-stricken  Aquarium.  Jonathan,  how 
ever,  accepted  his  Fate  with  Codfish  Calm,  buckled 
on  such  Mental  Armor  as  he  could  summon  to  the 
Cause,  and  on  his  downward  Descent  in  the  Store 
Jinrikisha  decided  that  henceforth  and  hereafter 


9  6  The  End  of  This  Bird 

he  would  speak  his  Mind  and  show  'em.  He  would 
be  there  front,  back  and  sideways — yea,  even  unto 
the  Fourth  Dimension! 

He  had  no  sooner  hung  his  Head  in  that  Frame 
of  Mind  when  the  Window  Trimmer's  Assistant 
approached  him  from  afar  and  piped,  "Say,  Mr. 
Front,  how  about  putting  these  Straw  Hats  in  the 
Window — it's  an  awfully  Warm  Day  for  January, 
y'know?"  To  which  Jonathan  Front,  Esquire — 
true  to  the  Traditions  of  his  Skittish  Clan — replied, 
"Ah  yes,  indeed,  of  course,  of  course!" 

MORAL:  Tou  can't  tell  a  man  by  bis  voice 
— nor  a  bird  by  its  plumage. 


Hewers  of  Wood  and 
Drawers  of  Water 

WHEREIN  is  recorded  the  tale  of  the 

folk  who  wanted  to  be  Autocrats  of 

the  Breakfast  Table  without  doing 

enough  manual  labor  to  work 

up  an  appetite 


[99] 


HEWERS  of 
DRAWERS   of  WATER 

A  Fable  about  the  folk  who  lived  on  cream  puffs 

WHAT  do  you  suppose  was  the  Cheapest 
Thing  in  the  Establishment  of  Putton's? 
Titles!  Everyone  had  a  sonorous  Title — 
from  the  Important  Personage  who  greeted  you  at 
the  door  to  the  Big  Mogul  himself.    When  it  came 
to  Gold  Trimmings,  Trappings   and   the  other 
tinseled  Regalia  that  inevitably  go  with  the  up 
holding  of  Tradition  and  all  that  sort  of  Bunkum, 
Putton's  stood  Ace-high. 

And  as  for  Caste  and  Class  Distinction  this  Store 
had  a  Prussian  Autocracy  shoved  off  the  Map. 
There  was  more  Camouflage,  more  Tartar  Sauce 
to  the  square  inch  than  some  Restaurateurs  use 
on  a  double  portion  of  Filet  de  Sole. 

To  add  to  the  mixy-mess  Titles  were  running 
short.  It  got  so  bad  that  the  Big  Chief  found 
himself  in  the  predicament  of  the  Railway  Presi 
dent  who  has  to  bribe  his  Grandniece  to  think  up 
new  names  for  his  Pullman  Cars.  And  so,  to  pacify 
these  grown-up  Babes  in  Toyland,  he  had  the 


102  Hewers  of  Wood  and 

Super  issue  a  Manual  labeled  something  like, 
''Who's  How  in  This  Hoosgow." 

Take,  for  example,  the  Adonis-like  Young  Man 
in  the  men's  furnishings,  who  parted  his  Hair  in 
the  middle.  A  dapper  Young  Man,  right  enough, 
but  from  the  Shoulders  up  he  was  Unimproved 
Property.  He  and  Brains  were  not  even  Step 
brothers.  Yet,  if  you  were  good  enough  to  dub 
him  a  Salesman,  you  were  in  for  a  Rude  Shock. 

Instead,  the  Superb  Specimen  in  question  would 
be  inclined  to  tilt  his  Nasal  Appendage  in  the  Air 
after  the  fashion  of  a  Monoplane  taking  a  rise. 
He  was,  if  you  please,  Fourth  Assistant  Furnish 
ings  Buyer.  So  there,  Mr.  Tart  Aleck! 

Or  suppose  a  Plebeian  Customer  had  the 
Temerity  to  complain  about  poor  Delivery  Service. 
Think  you  he  could  expect  to  communicate  his 
Plaint  to  the  Department  Head  himself?  No, 
indeedy,  the  Gentleman  in  Question  was  not  ap 
proachable.  The  Matter,  if  you  will,  would  be 
referred  in  due  order  to  the  Third  Assistant  in  said 
Department  who  would  bring  to  bear  on  the  Prob 
lem  all  the  Pressure  and  Perspicacity  of  his  Nine 
teen  Tender  Years.  Just  like  that! 


Drawers  of  Water  103 

And  if,  perchance,  a  Knight  of  the  Grip  invaded 
the  Stronghold  of  the  Clothing  Buyer,  the  Gentle 
man  in  Waiting  would  be  calmly  informed  that 
he  could  not  expect  to  view  the  Grand  Presence 
on  such  short  notice.  The  modus  operandi  of 
Putton's  required  the  Second  Assistant  Buyer  to 
give  his  line  the  Up  and  Down  before  he  could  hope 
even  to  gaze  at  the  Furrowed  Countenance  of 
H.  I.  M.  the  Clothing  Buyer. 

And  that  was  the  way  and  the  why  of  it.  Go 
through  the  whole  bloomin*  Cantonment  and  you 
couldn't  spy  a  Private  on  a  bet.  Everyone  was 
an  Officer — a  Person  of  Rank,  as  it  were. 

Now,  it  is  all  to  the  Merry  Bombardment  to 
have  Epaulets  and  Service  Bars  and  Stars,  when 
these  engender  an  esprit  de  corps.  But  in  the  case 
of  Putton's  they  served,  rather,  to  endanger 
whatever  Semblance  of  Discipline  was  left. 

Do  you  suppose  for  one  brief  moment  that  the 
Assistant  Buyer  in  the  Trunks  and  Leather  Goods 
would  deign  to  eat  his  Lunch  at  the  same  Beanery 
where  the  Porter  was  wont  to  imbibe  his  Ham- 
and  ?  Why,  Reginald,  the  idea !  Twould  be  such 
a  Blight  on  his  Family  Tree. 


The  Boss  gave  them  a  piece,  not  to  say  a 

healthy  hunk,  of  Ms  mind.  He  told  them,  to 

start  off  with,  that  life  is  not  all  beer 

and  skittles 


Drawers  of  W^ater  105 

One  day  it  dawned  on  the  Boss  that  while  Titles 
were  all  right  and  all  shimmery,  they  didn't  get 
the  Store  anywhere.  The  Customer  wanted  Ser 
vice — he  didn't  care  Who-in-Heligoland  the  Sales 
man  was.  He  was  not  especially  interested  in 
knowing  the  Sugar-coated  Pedigree  of  the  Superior 
Person  who  fawned  at  him  over  the  Counter. 
And  he  was  not  especially  concerned  with  the  fact 
that  the  S.  P.'s  Ancestors  had  come  over  on  the 

Sunflower.     What  he  wanted  was  Service.  £' 

• 

By  the  time  the  Boss  got  this  Thought  firmly 
imbedded  in  his  Cabeza,  even  the  Stenog  in  the 
outer  portal  could  see  that  his  Disposition  was 
ripped  up  the  back  from  Crupper  to  Hame.  But 
he  was  Tactician  enough  to  realize  that  you  can't 
revolutionize  a  Business  overnight. 

Accordingly,  he  called  together  the  be-mus- 
tached,  be-manicured  and  be-mollycoddled  Per 
sonages  in  his  employ.  And  he  gave  them  a 
Piece — not  to  say  a  Healthy  Hunk — of  his  Mind. 
He  told  them,  to  start  off  with,  that  Life  is  not  all 
Beer  and  Skittles.  And  he  followed  this  Bowery- 
esque  Aphorism  with  the  characteristic  observa 
tion  that  when  a  Man  wears  a  Frock  Coat  to 


i  o  6  Hewers  of  JVood  and 

Business,  chances  are  he  has  more  Coat  than  he 
has  Business. 

Among  other  things,  the  Boss  wanted  to  know 
why  such  Men  as  Ben  Franklin  and  Abe  Lincoln 
had  not  raved  about  their  Pedigrees;  and  why 
these  Master-Men  were  content  to  sign  them 
selves  "Tour  obedient  servant"  et  cetera. 

After  the  first  Hiccoughs  of  Astonishment  had 
subsided,  the  Boss  followed  up  his  Ante  with  a 
Trundle  full  of  Comments  calculated  to  bring  his 
Audience  back  to  Mother  Earth.  He  acknowl 
edged  quite  frankly  that  it  was  a  human  frailty  to 
like  Pomp  and  Fuss  and  Fluster  and  all  that.  But 
there  was  little  place  for  that  in  Modern  Business. 

The  Establishment  of  Putton's,  it  seems,  had 
gone  in  for  Red  Robes  and  Brass  Railings  so  long 
that  today  it  was  hemmed  in  by  a  Chinese  Wall  of 
Red  Tape  and  Tradition.  Henceforth,  he  said, 
Snobbishness  and  Uppishness  were  to  be  taboo. 
Putton's  was  to  be  made  Safe  for  Democracy. 
Hereafter  the  Keynote  of  this  Institution  was  to 
be  "Pitch  in  and  do  your  double-bit" 

As  a  Finishing  Touch  to  his  Discourse,  the  Boss 
related  a  little  Parable  about  a  Milk-and-Honey 


Drawers  of  JVater  i  o  7 

Community — a  veritable  Utopia  that  a  bunch  of 
Highbrows  started  to  build  in  the  Woods.  Every 
thing  was  hunky-dory.  The  Idea  was  all  right, 
the  Cause  was  worthy  and  the  Spirit  was  there. 
But  the  Project  fell  flatter  than  the  proverbial 
Hohenzollern  Pancake.  Why?  Because  every 
one  wanted  to  be  the  Architect,  the  Engineer,  the 
Builder.  Everybody  was  so  important  Nobody 
did  any  real  Work.  Hew  Wood  and  Draw  Water  ? 
Not  for  their  Aesthetic  Hands ! 

And  so,  affirmed  the  Chief  Putter  of  Putton  's, 
as  he  wound  up  with  a  Swinging  Drive  to  the 
Green,  it  would  be  necessary  for  the  Success  of 
the  Store  that  every  Employee  should  pitch  in  and 
dig  away;  that  they  should  be  content  to  be 
Hewers  of  Wood  and  Drawers  of  Water  if  the 
Business  Structure  they  were  building  was  to  rear 
its  Head  to  the  Skies. 

MORAL:  Titles  may  be  all  to  the  mustard 
as  a  relish^  but  why  make  a  meal  of  them? 


The  Pot  of  Gold  at  the  End 
of  the  Payroll 

WHEREIN  is  recorded  the  tale  of 

the  young  wiseacres  who  looked 

with  covetous  eyes  on  the  Long 

Green  only  to  find  the 

landscape  a  mirage 


[109] 


The  POT  of  GOLD  at  the 
END  of  the  PAYROLL 

A  Fable  about  the  prospectors  who  struck  bottom 

EVER  since  this  wild  and  woolly  World  began 
to  wag,  Men  have  gone  forth  to  wrest  Treas 
ure  from  Lands  afar  when  plenty  of  Bullion 
was  bubbling  under  their  Feet — not  to  say  in  front 
of  their  Noses.  And  ever  since  Men  have  sailed  the 
Seven  Seas,  they  have  thrown  Belaying  Pins  at  their 
loyal  Deck-Hands,  Slow  and  Sure,  and  have  cast 
Longing  Eyes  in  the  direction  of  those  infamous 
Circes  of  old,  Quick  and  Hazardous.  Thus  has 
it  ever  been  and  thus  shall  it  ever  be.  But,  instead 
of  saying  Amen,  Selah,  I'm  going  to  say,  "Hello, 
we're  off!"  ... 

It  so  happened  that  Tom,  Dick,  Harry  and 
Josephus  were  Deck  Mates  in  the  stately  Ship  of 
Business  known  as  the  Bon  Ton  Store  of  Spokattle. 
These  four  Young  Men  were  the  original  Siamese 
Double-Twins.  They  roomed  at  the  same 
Hostelry,  they  ate  at  the  same  Grease-Shops, 
they  smoked  the  same  Fags,  they  frequented  the 
same  Haberdasher's,  they  affected  the  same  Style 


112 


The  Pot  of  Gold  at  the 


of  Tonsorial  Art,  they  sang  their  own  Songs  for 
their  own  Edification  and,  like  all  Bachelors,  were 
blissfully  ignorant  of  the  Great  Divide  between 
Heavenly  Harmony  and  Devilish  Discord. 

They  were  a  Loyal  Crew — were  Tom,  Dick, 
Harry  and  Josephus.  It  was  generally  admitted, 
however,  that  the  Last  Named  Individual  was  the 
Tamest  Lothario  in  the  Bunch  since  he  had  had 
only  Two  Love  Affairs  in  his  Twenty-six  Years  of 
sageful  Youth,  and  since  he  was  rather  set  in  his 
Ways  and  cared  naught  for  the  sprightly  little 
Sprees  which  most  Young  Men  deem  essential  for  a 
Bounteous  Harvest.  But,  aside  from  this  slight 
Difference  in  Brotherly  Fooling,  these  four  Sprout- 
lings  got  along  with  as  few  Squabbles  and  as  little 
Back-biting  as  can  be  expected  in  any  City  outside 
of  Philadelphia. 

In  the  four  or  five  Years  that  this  Amiable 
Quartette  had  been  working  at  the  Bon  Ton,  they 
had  received  moderate  Increases  in  Salary  and,  in 
the  regular  Course  of  Affairs  commercial  and 
mercenary,  they  could  reasonably  expect  to  work 
into  Executive  Positions  with  an  adequate  Hono 
rarium  when  they  reached  this  Desirable  Pinnacle. 


End  of  the  Payroll  1 1 3 

The  Management  of  the  Bon  Ton  did  not 
believe  in  petting  its  Employees  like  Poodle  Dogs; 
nor  did  it  believe  in  trampling  them  under-foot. 
It  never  brought  out  the  Punch  Bowl  when  a  New 
Employee  arrived;  and  it  never  brought  out  the 
Vinegar  Cruet  when  an  Old  One  departed.  It 
was  a  good,  steady  Store  for  good,  steady  People. 

Josephus,  for  his  part,  was  content  to  trudge 
along  on  Abe  Lincoln's  Advice  to  work  and  study 
until  the  Time  came  for  his  Big  Salaam.  But,  on 
occasion,  the  other  three  Members  of  the  Tribe 
would  see  pink  and  swear  blue  and  would  point 
out  the  Impediments  that  stood  in  their  Upward 
Path  to  More  Protein  and  More  Gravy. 

Tom  would  point  to  his  Chief  in  the  Credit 
Department,  Bradley  Dun  by  name.  Brad  had 
been  perched  on  the  High  Stool  so  long  that  his 
Disposition  had  not  only  soured — it  had  weathered 
three  Distinct  Ages  of  Fermentation.  According 
to  Tom's  version,  Bradley  Dun  had  sat  on  the 
Dough  Bag  so  long  that  it  was  no  wonder  his 
Trousers  were  shiny.  Mr.  Dun,  it  seemed,  had 
often  lectured  Tom  on  the  Stern  Necessity  of  lay 
ing  by  a  Nest-Egg  for  later  Eggless  Days.  In 


They  sang  their  own  songs  for  their  own  edi 
fication  and,  like  alt  bachelors,  were  blissfully 
ignorant  of  the  Great  Divide  between  heav 
enly  harmony  and  devilish  discord 


End  of  the  Payroll 


fact,  Mr.  Dun  operated  on  the  time-tattered 
Theory  that  the  only  Dough  you'll  ever  have  is  the 
Dough  youVe  got  right  now.  This  may  sound 
like  a  Parody  on  a  Popular  Song.  But,  to  Six 
Ears  of  our  Eight-eared  Quartette,  it  sounded  like 
a  Tragedy. 

Then  Dick  would  bridge  into  the  Game  by  point 
ing  out  his  Chief,  Mr.  Clarence  O'Calico,  who 
bought  White  Goods  for  the  Bon  Ton.  When  it 
came  to  the  Money  Question,  Clarence  was  tight, 
taut  and  terribly  averse  to  doling  out  anything 
that  smacked  like  Real  Coin  of  the  Realm.  When 
ever  he  let  an  Expensive  Draft  whiz  by,  you  felt 
like  heading  for  your  Baby  Grand  and  playing 
some  funereal,  heart-rending  Selection  from  Chopin 
with  the  Pedal  on  the  Fortissimo. 

After  which,  Harry  would  chime  in  by  citing  his 
Chief,  Mr.  Alexander  Kaplush,  the  Plethoric 
Person  in  charge  of  Furniture  and  Household 
Goods.  According  to  Harry's  Diagnosis  of  the 
Case,  he  couldn't  hope  to  lounge  in  Alexander's 
Davenport  until  the  Upholstered  Person  in  Ques 
tion  had  succumbed  to  angina  pectoris  and  had 
taken  up  his  Residence  in  the  Elysian  Fields. 


The  Pot  of  Gold  at  the 


While  Josephus  —  who  may  have  had  more  Fools 
cap  in  his  Pocket  than  on  his  Head  —  would  say 
Nothing  and  let  the  Triumvirate  spout  to  its 
forensic  Content.  Every  time  such  a  Discussion 
took  place,  Tom,  Dick  and  Harry  would  decide  to 
pull  up  Stakes  forthwith  and  choo-choo  over  to 
Deadwood  where  they  had  heard  that  the  Pom 
Pom  Store  was  paying  Fabulous  Salaries.  But  the 
next  Morning  they  would  show  up  at  the  Bon  Ton 
as  usual.  So  Josephus  murmured  something  to 
himself  about  the  Bark  being  worse  than  the  Bite 
and  paid  scant  Attention  to  the  Intermittent 
Malarial  Plans  made  by  Tom,  Dick  and  Harry  for 
the  Short  Jaunt  to  Treasure  Island. 

Came  a  Sunday  Morning,  however,  when 
Josephus  found  his  Three  Worldly  Brothers  drink 
ing  in  an  alluring  Advertisement  in  The  Daily 
Bleat.  It  seemed  that  the  Pom  Pom  Store  in 
Deadwood  had  some  Very  Desirable  Openings  for 
some  Very  Desirable  Young  Men  but  that  Appli 
cants  would  have  to  appear  in  person  Monday 
morning  at  8  o'clock  sharp.  That  settled  it! 
Why  wait  for  Opportunity  to  bruise  its  sensitive 
Knuckles  knocking  at  their  Front  Gate?  Here 


End  of  the  Payroll 


was  a  Golden  Gondola  that  would  take  them  over 
a  Trackless  Sea  into  the  Sweet  Harbor  of  Pros 
perity.  Avaunt,  Allans  and  Alfalfa!  —  they  would 
go  —  and  they  did! 

Tom,  Dick  and  Harry  jumped  for  the  Bait  and 
swallowed  it  Hook,  Line  and  Sinker.  While  Jose- 
phus  —  who  was  only  a  Little  Minnow  in  his  own 
Estimation  and  theirs  —  decided  he  had  better 
stick  around  in  the  little  Puddle  where  he  was  and 
not  go  swimming  in  the  Big  Pond  with  these  Big 
Fishes. 

So,  on  Monday,  when  the  Super  asked  Josephus 
as  to  what  had  happened  to  his  Three  Ford  Attach 
ments,  the  Stay-at-Home  sparked  up  quite  frankly 
and  said  he  didn't  know;  they  had  gone  on  some 
week-end  Fishing  Trip  without  him  and  he  cer 
tainly  hoped  they  hadn't  drowned  or  something. 

But  on  the  following  Day,  there  came  an  Exuber 
ant  Letter  from  Tom  who  acted  as  Tribal  Heads 
man  for  the  Treasure-Hunting  Expedition.  Tom 
said  they  had  all  landed  Fat  Jobs  with  Real  Money 
and  how  glad  they  were  to  get  out  of  that  poky  Old 
Place,  the  Bon  Ton!  And  what  Swell  Queens 
there  were  in  the  Pom  Pom  —  oh,  Boy!  No  fussy 


n8 The  Pot  of  Gold  at  the 

Old  Maids  to  pester  a  Fellow  with  Hot  Goose  Fat 
and  Red  Flannel  when  he  happened  to  have  a  Cold. 
No  siree,  this  was  the  Real  Class — believe  him! 

And  wouldn't  Josephus  please  pack  up  their 
Duds  and  ship  them  to  Deadwood  at  once?  And 
wouldn't  Josephus  be  a  Good  Fellow  and  tell  the 
Boss  that — er,  er,  oh!  well,  Joey  would  know  what 
to  tell  the  Boss.  It  was  such  a  Hard  Thing  to 
explain  by  Letter — wasn't  it,  now,  Joey,  old  top? 

So  our  Poor  Dub  of  a  Josephus  performed  the 
last  Sad  Rites  in  accordance  with  their  Last  Living 
Request,  and  was  rather  surprised  at  the  way  the 
Boss  took  it.  Instead  of  growing  purple  in  the 
Face  and  boisterous  in  his  Language,  the  Boss 
merely  nodded  his  Head  in  Infinite  Understanding 
and  smiled  a  Wan  Little  Smile  for  such  a  Big  Man. 
The  Boss  seemed  to  remind  Josephus  of  a  Preacher 
he  had  once  heard  who  had  taken  for  his  Text, 
"Father,  forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what 
they  do." 

In  the  meanwhile,  Old  Man  Tempus  kept 
fugiting  right  along  as  Old  Man  Tempus  has  a 
habit  of  doing.  Josephus  kept  trudging  right 
along  at  the  Bon  Ton  while  his  more  adventure- 


End  of  the  Payroll  x  *  9 

some  Brothers  were  trekking  the  Perfumed  Cor 
ridors  of  the  Pom  Pom.  Often  of  an  Evening, 
when  he  would  be  studying  up  some  new  Kink  in 
Merchandising,  Josephus  would  find  himself  won 
dering  as  to  how  Tom,  Dick  and  Harry  were  get 
ting  on.  What  Fine  Pals  they  were  and  what 
Great  Times  they  must  be  having!  Weren't  they 
right,  after  all?  And  wasn't  he  a  Fool  for  staying 
in  a  Two-Cylinder  Burg  like  Spokattle?  He 
wondered!  .  .  .  Once  Dick  sent  him  a  highly 
colored  Card  from  a  highly  gilded  Cafe  with  the 
highly  original  Remark  that  they  were  having  a 
Swell  Time  and  hoping  he  was  having  the  Same. 
On  another  Occasion,  Harry  had  sent  him  a  Snap 
shot  showing  the  Whole  Crew  boating  on  Dimple 
Lake,  with  the  scrawly  Suggestion  that  he  had 
better  forsake  the  Quiet  Precincts  of  Spokattle  and 
come  to  a  Real  Town.  That  was  all ! 

That  was  all — until  about  a  half  year  later,  when 
Josephus  received  a  Surreptitious  Letter  from 
Tom  in  which  he  remarked  that  be  was  getting 
along  great  but  that  Dick  was  certainly  getting  a 
Raw  Deal.  Dick  had  been  promised  a  Raise  that 
he  didn't  get  and  his  Immediate  Superior  Officer 


At  the  Pom  Pom  there  were  no  fussy  old 

maids  to  pester  a  fellow  with  hot  goose 

fat  and  red  flannel  when  he  happened  to 

have  a  cold 


End  of  the  Payroll 


121 


was  simply  impossible.  But  Dick  was  a  Regular 
Fellow,  as  Joey  knew,  and  he  was  taking  his 
Medicine  without  a  Word  of  Whimper.  At  the 
same  time,  if  Joey  could  possibly  find  a  Berth  for 
Dick  in  the  good  old  Bon  Ton,  Tom  was  sure  Dick 
would  grab  it. 

Josephus — innocent  Soul  that  he  was — was  quite 
nonplussed.  He  didn't  know  how  to  engineer  such 
a  Ticklish  Deal  so  he  thought  he'd  better  wait  a 
few  days  to  dope  up  a  Plan  of  Attack  on  the  Boss. 
But,  he  didn't  have  to  wait  very  long  before  he  got 
a  Letter  from  Dick  saying  be  was  scooting  along  in 
Fine  Style  but  it  was  a  Shame  the  way  the  Pom 
Pom  was  treating  Harry.  It  seemed  that  Harry 
had  been  promised  the  Assistant  Buyership  of  his 
Department  but,  when  the  Time  came,  the  Buyer 
had  imported  his  own  Nephew  for  the  Purpose. 
Of  course,  Harry  hadn't  mooshied  a  Word  about 
it  and  Harry  would  never  forgive  Dick  for  writing 
Joey  about  it.  Still  and  all,  if  Joey  could  get 
Harry's  Old  Job  back  again,  it  would  certainly  be 
a  Great  Thing  for  the  Kid. 

By  this  time  Josephus  was  beginning  to  see  the 
Milk  in  the  Cocoanut.  So,  he  was  hardly  surprised 


122 


The  Pot  of  Gold  at  the 


in  the  next  few  days  to  get  another  stealthy  Letter 
— this  time  from  no  less  a  person  than  Harry. 
This  benighted  Individual  assured  Josephus  that 
be  was  certainly  making  Great  Progress  but  that 
it  was  a  Crime  the  way  Tom  was  being  abused. 
Tom  had  started  to  work  for  the  Pom  Pom  at  the 
same  Salary  he  had  been  receiving  at  the  Bon  Ton; 
but  he  was  promised  a  Husky  Bonus  in  six  months. 
The  h.b.  was  not  forthcoming,  however,  because 
Mr.  Pom  Pom  had  regretfully  assured  Tom  that 
Business  had  slumped  somehow  or  other  and  that 
undoubtedly  Things  would  perk  up  pretty  soon 
and  Tom  would  pick  up  his  Share  of  the  Spoils. 

Harry's  Letter  continued  to  narrate  the  Fact 
that,  when  Tom  had  suddenly  contracted  a  bad 
case  of  Influenza  and  had  been  taken  to  the  Hos 
pital,  no  one  at  the  Pom  Pom  had  manifested  any 
Deep  Concern.  And,  furthermore,  that  the  grim- 
visaged  Cashier  at  Pom  Pom's  had  promptly 
deducted  Tom's  Pay  for  the  time  being,  on  the 
Charitable  Principle  that  Business  is  Business. 

At  any  rate,  Tom  was  so  sick  he  couldn't  see 
straight;  and  his  Bank  Account  was  in  a  State  of 
Imminent  Collapse.  So,  although  Harry  hadn't 


End  of  the  Payroll  1 2  3 

consulted  Tom  on  the  subject,  he  was  right  certain 
that  Tom  would  take  his  Old  Job  at  the  Bon  Ton, 
if  it  could  possibly  be  arranged. 

Josephus  didn't  wait  for  any  more  Signals  of 
Distress  but  promptly  hoisted  the  three  guileful 
Letters  in  front  of  the  Boss.  He  figured  that  if  he 
had  to  spill  the  Beans  he  might  as  well  let  the  Boss 
count  'em.  So  the  Boss  digested  the  Mealy  Meal 
and  topped  it  off  with  a  Hearty  Laugh;  while 
Josephus  didn't  know  whether  to  be  polite  and 
join  in,  or  be  serious  and  act  concerned. 

When  the  Laughing  Act  was  over,  the  Boss 
assured  Josephus  that,  under  the  circumstances, 
it  would  hardly  be  Good  Policy  for  him  to  take  the 
Miscreants  back.  But  this  much  he  didn't  mind 
telling  him :  that  Josephus  had  been  slated  to  head 
a  New  Department  and  that  it  was  up  to  said  Jose 
phus  to  pick  his  own  Help.  If  Josephus  was  foolish 
enough  to  take  back  his  Three  Erring  Brothers? 
that  was  no  Special  Tribulation  of  the  Boss.  It 
was  Josephus'  own  Wedding  and  he  could  have  his 
own  Guests.  Or,  to  change  from  Mendelssohn  to 
something  less  mellifluous,  it  was  Joey's  own 
Funeral  and  he  could  choose  his  own  Pall-Bearers. 


2  4         The  End  of  the  Pot  of  Gold 

Joey,  however,  was  in  too  hilarious  a  Mood  to 
worry  about  Funeral  Dirges  so  he  promptly  sent 
out  a  Clarion  Call  a  la  Western  Union  asking  the 
far-flung  Members  of  his  Tribe  to  come  back  home 
for  the  Bon  Ton  Reunion.  When  they  got  the 
Gladsome  Tidings,  Tom,  Dick  and  Harry  lifted 
their  Right  Hands  solemnly  in  a  sort  of  T.  E. 
Powers  Attitude,  and  then,  as  if  to  the  Accompani 
ment  of  doleful  Viols  and  sorrowing  Bagpipes, 
chanted  that  famous  Refrain,  "Never  Again!" 

And  yet,  if  you  talk  to  Tom,  Dick  and  Harry, 
they'll  tell  you  that  Josephus  is  a  Prince  of  a  Fel 
low  but  an  Awful  Simp.  Because  he  never  goes 
fishing  outside  the  City  Limits  and  he  swallows 
Everything  you  tell  him — Hook,  Line  and  Sinker. 

MORAL:  'The  sheep  jump  over  the  fence 
because  the  grass  looks  greener. 


The  Boss  Who  Listened 
to  Treason 

WHEREIN  //  recorded  the  tale 

of  a  knowing  chieftain  who 

fought  fire  with  fire  and  put 

out  the  blaze  in 

jig  time 


The  BOSS  who  LISTENED 
I  to  TREASON 

A  Fable  about  the  mutiny  that  fell  mute 

THEY  may  babble  all  they  like  about  the 
Tower  of  Babel  and  they  may  rave  all  they 
please  about  the  Noise-Factory  in  the  Pro 
vince  of  Bedlam;  but  for  Sheer  Din  and  Riotous 
Racket  it  would  be  hard  to  beat  the  Outer  Offices  of 
the  Gew-Gaw  Publishing  Company.     For,  here 
was  the  Fountain  Head  whence  flowed  the  Edi 
torial  Elixir  dispensed  to  Patient  Readers   the 
nation  over. 

Every  morning,  after  the  Masculine  Standbys  of 
the  Office  had  duly  hung  up  their  Society  Brands, 
and  after  the  Co-eds  had  duly  donned  Paper  Cuffs, 
the  Anvil  Chorus  would  tune  up  with  a  rhapsodic 
little  Litany  about  the  Boss.  It  so  happened  that 
the  Boss  had  been  a  Night  Gawk  all  his  Life  and 
was  accustomed  to  doing  most  of  his  Work  during 
the  Evening;  so  that  he  was  in  the  Habit  of  breez 
ing  into  the  Office  somewhere  around  ten  o'clock 
each  day. 

No  one  but  the  Night  Watchman  knew  when  the 


The  Boss  Who 


Boss  left  each  night,  but  that  didn't  create  much 
of  a  Continental  with  the  Office  Staff.  For,  when 
ever  the  Boss  glided  past  in  the  morning  on  his  way 
to  his  Private  Cubby-hole,  that  was  the  Signal  for 
the  Choir  to  join  in  a  brief  but  sybilant  Psalm  en 
titled  P.  S.  —  meaning  pretty  soft,  pretty  slick, 
pretty  sleepy,  powdered  stuff. 

Although  the  Office  Crew  was  supposed  to  be 
under  the  direct  Wing  of  Henry  Pulp  Wagmore, 
the  kindly-kindled  Office  Manager,  it  would  be 
much  more  proper  to  say  that  the  Clerical  Contin 
gent  was  under  the  Spell  of  Madame  Grundy.  For, 
when  it  came  to  Batting  Averages  in  the  Gossip 
League,  this  Blabbing  Bunch  had  the  Pennant 
cornered  six  jumps  from  the  Polo  Grounds. 

The  Boss,  for  his  part,  was  so  immersed  in 
trundling  out  his  Daily  Quota  of  Editorial  Brick 
that  he  paid  scant  attention  to  the  Verbal  Trip- 
Hammer  Exercise  that  went  on  outside.  He 
knew  that  his  Aides  were  only  human  and  that  the 
Human  Cuss  isn't  happy  unless  he  can  exercise  his 
normal  Lingual  Function.  But  he  was  hardly 
prepared  for  the  Flank  Attack  that  greeted  his 
Ears  one  fine  morning  when  he  had  been  foolish 


Listened  to  Treason  1 3 I 

enough  to  work  all  night  and  fall  asleep  at  his 
Manuscript-littered  Desk. 

He  was  awakened  by  the  peculiar  Cacophany  of 
Sound  that  is  inseparably  identified  with  the 
Process  of  harnessing  up  for  the  Day's  Work. 
There  was  the  Clatter  of  Feet  in  the  direction  of 
the  Cloak  Room,  the  Stray  Wisps  of  Good  Morn 
ing  Chatter,  the  Heavy  Rumblings  of  a  Giant  Safe 
rudely  disturbed  from  its  Night's  Slumber,  the 
Opening  of  Desks,  the  Banging  of  Drawers,  the 
Trial  Sprints  of  Typewriter  Carriages,  the  Swish- 
Swish  of  emphatic  Dust  Cloths,  and  the  chaotic 
Medley  of  Sounds  that  constitute  the  Morning 
Glory  Ode  to  the  God  of  Business. 

Had  anyone  suspected  for  the  brief  Flutter  of  a 
Moment  that  the  Boss  was  securely  if  sleepily 
ensconced  in  his  Sacred  Cubby-hole,  the  Conver 
sation  would  have  taken  on  an  entirely  Different 
Tack  if,  indeed,  it  had  been  tacky  at  all.  And 
had  anyone  been  familiar  enough  with  Aeronautics 
to  realize  that  Lies  as  well  as  Flies  can  float  in 
over  the  Transom,  the  Gew-Gaw  Stock  on  the 
Gossip  Exchange  would  have  immediately  dropped 
below  par. 


The  Boss  Who 


At  any  rate,  the  Verbal  Proceedings  of  the  Day 
were  opened  up  by  Miss  Amy  Pitman,  personal 
Stenographer  to  the  Boss.  Miss  Pitman  an 
nounced,  apropos  of  nothing,  that  she  had  seen  a 
Man  in  the  Movies  the  night  before  who  reminded 
her  so  much  of  the  Boss.  He  was  tall  and  dark 
and  distinguished-looking  and  he  had  Long  Eye 
lashes  an'  everything.  But  before  Miss  Pitman 
could  finish  her  Ecstatic  Description,  she  was  in 
terrupted  by  Miss  Bara  Cuda  who  uncoiled  some 
Choice  Reptiles  from  her  Websterian  Wiggle  with 
out  further  frou-frou.  By  the  time  she  got  through 
with  her  Lye  and  Caustic,  everyone  knew  that  she 
had  seen  the  same  Movie  but  she  had  not  seen  the 
Slightest  Resemblance  between  the  Handsome 
Leading  Man  and  her  Bass  Buffo  of  a  Boss. 

Whereupon  Jack  Jolson,  the  original  Poohbah  of 
the  White  Lights,  muttered  something  like  "  Buck 
ets  of  Mush!"  and  naively  inquired  whether  anyone 
realized  what  a  terrible  Ear  for  Music  the  Boss  had. 
In  fact,  the  Boss  had  remarked  to  Jack  on  more 
than  one  Occasion  that  the  Average  Brand  of 
Music  tried  out  on  the  Vocal  Steinways  of  the 
American  Public  was  a  Riot  of  Rot;  and  that  there 


Listened  to  Treason  *  3  3 

was  more  genuine  Swing  and  Lilt  to  the  Mother 
Goose  Nursery  Rhymes  than  there  was  to  the 
Sextettes  from  Louisiana  dished  up  in  Tin  Pan 
Alley. 

At  this  juncture,  Mr.  Horace  Greeley  Conklin, 
an  Assistant  Editor  of  the  Gew-Gaw  Magazine, 
chirped  in  with  the  bland  Comment  that  the  Boss* 
Ignorance  on  Literary  Matters  was  simply  appall 
ing.  The  Boss  had  freely  confessed  to  him  that 
he  would  die  just  as  happily  if  he  hadn't  read 
Rabindranath  Tagore,  and  that  he  found  more 
Solace  in  wading  through  a  Gothamy  Tale  by  O. 
Henry. 

Whereat  Mr.  Edgar  Allen  Browning,  in  charge 
of  the  Poets'  Corner,  stepped  into  the  versified 
Conversation  with  the  Lament  that  the  Boss 
knew  absolutely  nothing  about  what  constituted 
Good  Poetry.  The  Boss,  it  seemed,  was  of  the 
Opinion  that  the  Bubble  Teaser  at  the  Corner 
Drug  Store  could  mix  a  Holstein  Highball  with 
more  Poetic  Feeling  than  some  of  these  Alleged 
Poets  could  mix  a  simple  Quatrain  about  the  Moon, 
the  Stars,  and  the  Girl  Who  Sold  Sea  Shells  at  the 
Seashore. 


ITic  bubble  teaser  at  the  corner  drug  store 

could  mix  aHolsteinHighballwith  morepoetic 

feeling  than  some  of  these  alleged  poets  could 

mix  a  simple  quatrain  about  the  Moon,  the 

Stars,  and  the  Girl  Who  Sold  Sea  Shells 

at  the  Seashore 


Listened  to  Treason  *  3  5 

Following  which,  Mr.  Addison  Burke  Quillby, 
the  Sage  of  the  Book  Review  Department,  looked 
up  from  his  Lore  long  enough  to  remark  that  the 
Boss  was  a  very  narrow-gauged  and  practical- 
minded  Individual.  On  one  Occasion,  he  had  told 
Quillby  that  what  the  People  wanted  was  the 
Philosophy  of  Plato  in  the  Language  of  the  Motor- 
man.  On  another  Occasion  he  had  assured  the 
same  shocked  Editor  that  a  Subject  like  Meta 
physics  was,  for  the  average  person,  a  Waste  of 
Time;  and  that,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned,  the 
Point  of  Interrogation  could  turn  a  Somersault 
and  call  it  a  Day. 

Not  to  be  outdone  by  this  Avalanche  of  Calci 
mine  Comment,  Mr.  Windsor  Camelbrush,  the 
Assistant  Art  Editor,  daubed  into  the  Landscape 
with  the  China-white  Remark  that  the  Boss  was 
an  Absolute  Blank  when  it  came  to  appreciating 
Modern  Art.  Somehow  or  other,  the  Boss  couldn't 
quite  see  this  Voguish  Stuff  that  made  a  Man  look 
as  if  he  had  spent  a  Sleepless  Night  pressing  his 
Trousers  under  the  Family  Ostermoor  and  then 
had  spent  a  Fretful  Day  worrying  over  the  Bag 
in  his  Knees,  the  Sag  in  his  Abdominal  Area  and 


136 The  Boss  Who 

the  Crease  in  his  Lumbar  Region.  Nor  could  he 
quite  see  the  Big  Idea  in  making  Women  look  like 
Denizens  of  the  Rouge  Monde  where  the  Lip  Stick 
Orchestra  dispensed  its  Chin  Music  to  the  Habitues 
of  Rainbow  Lane  and  Peacock  Alley.  It  was  clear 
to  see  that  the  Boss  was  helplessly  old-fashioned 
in  his  Ideas. 

At  this  stage  of  the  proceedings,  Mike  O'Leary 
— the  erudite  Office  Boy  who  had  been  tussling 
with  Irritable  Mail  Bags  throughout  this  Gab-fest 
— hurled  himself  into  the  Conversational  Mael 
strom  by  telling  them  to  cut  the  Gaff  and  get  down 
to  Business  and  lay  off  of  the  Boss.  For,  the  Boss 
was  the  only  Regular  Guy  in  the  Place,  no  matter 
what  these  Gew-Gaws  said  about  him,  and  he  liked 
the  Boss  and  the  Boss  liked  him — and  that  was  all 
there  was  to  it!  Furthermore,  the  Boss  was  a 
great  Baseball  Fan  and  an  Office  Boy  could  attend 
the  Obsequies  of  Twenty  Grandmothers  in  one 
Season,  so  far  as  this  Boss  went.  And,  if  they 
wanted  to  know  the  Real  Truth,  the  Boss  had 
more  Good  Nature  to  the  Clock  Tick  than  they 
had  to  the  Calendar  Year — and  some  more  Spirited 
Stuff  pitched  in  the  same  Boyish  Key. 


Listened  to  Treason 


Mike's  Flow  of  Enthusiasm  was  cut  short,  how 
ever,  by  Miss  Corona  Remington  who  told  him 
he  was  too  young  to  talk  to  his  Elders  and  that  the 
Best  Thing  he  could  do  right  then  was  to  come  over 
and  fix  her  Typewriter  Ribbon.  Because  she  had 
spent  Two  Hours  in  the  Parlor  last  night  with  her 
Nail  Buffer  and  she  didn't  propose  to  soil  her 
Immaculate  Fingers  on  such  Sordid  Things. 

Whereupon  Mr.  Oliver  Underwood,  the  Chief 
Assistant  Editor  of  the  Gew-Gaw  Magazine,  who 
had  been  too  busy  suppressing  the  Bulge  in  his 
Shirt  Front  to  take  an  Active  Part  in  the  Conver 
sation,  steeped  himself  in  Baboonish  Brilliancy 
and  stepped  into  the  Breach.  He  assured  his 
Audience  that,  regardless  of  what  a  fresh  Office 
Boy  might  say,  the  Milk  of  Human  Kindness  dis 
pensed  by  the  Boss  smacked  strongly  of  the  Can. 

As  this  Astute  Young  Man  warmed  up  to  his 
Subject,  he  narrated  a  Story  that  would  have 
drawn  a  Crowd  even  in  the  Streets  of  Bagdad  and 
Damascus.  The  trouble  was,  according  to  this 
Modest  Weasel,  that  the  Boss  wouldn't  listen  to 
Reason.  Very  few  people  appreciated  that  Oliver 
Underwood  was  the  real  Brain-Factory  of  the  Out- 


138 The  Boss  Who 

fit;  and,  to  be  quite  frank  about  it,  Mr.  Oliver 
Underwood  couldn't  see  how  the  Gew-Gaw  Maga 
zine  could  possibly  get  along  without  Mr.  Oliver 
Underwood — and  Mr.  Oliver  Underwood  wished 
to  assure  everyone  present  of  this  Weighty  Fact. 

Then,  as  if  to  add  Fuel  to  the  ever-lambent 
Flame  of  Controversy,  Ollie  added  that  he  knew 
so  much  about  the  Business  that  the  Boss  wouldn't 
dare  fire  him.  And  if,  by  some  Cataclysm  of  Fate, 
this  Purgatorial  Event  ever  did  happen,  Ollie 
could  get  a  Big  Job  on  the  Jim-Crack  Magazine 
faster  than  you  could  flip  Jack  Robinson.  So 
there! — that's  where  Oliver  Underwood  stood  in 
the  Good  Graces  of  this  Inky  World. 

Oliver's  Career  would  have  been  cut  short  then 
and  there  had  not  the  Boss — who  had  been  drink 
ing  it  all  in  by  the  Spoonful — restrained  an  Im 
pulse  to  press  the  Buzzer  and  set  the  Buzzards 
flying  over  Ollie 's  Head.  But,  just  as  he  was 
about  to  reveal  to  his  Performers  that  he  had  wit 
nessed  their  Undressed  Rehearsal  from  the  Wings, 
an  Idea  came  full  panoplied  from  the  Sky  and 
smote  him  Hip  and  Thigh.  Yes,  he  would! — by 
the  Great  Tin  Horn  of  Horatius  —  he  would  fight 


Listened  to  Treason  J  3  9 

Fire  with  Fire!  He  would  prove  to  this  Warrish 
Tribe  of  his  that  he  was  Every  Inch  a  Ruler! 

Accordingly,  this  Wise  Man  of  the  East  let  him 
self  out  of  his  Sanctum  by  the  Hall  Door,  slipped 
downstairs  for  his  Morning  Potion  of  Java  and, 
about  fifteen  minutes  later,  breezed  into  the  Outer 
Office  and  glided  past  to  his  Little  Layette  as  if 
nothing  had  happened  to  mar  the  Serenity  of  his 
Chastened  Life. 

No  sooner  had  the  Boss  swung  into  the  Saddle 
of  his  Swivel-Chair  than  he  buzzed  for  Sir  Oliver 
Underwood  and  neatly  administered  the  Guillo 
tine  Treatment  without  even  reaching  for  the 
Chloroform.  The  Boss  made  it  clear  to  the 
Astounded  Victim  that  he  was  afraid  the  Gew- 
Gaw  Magazine  wasn't  big  enough  for  him  and 
that  he  had  better  seek  a  Wider  Berth.  In  fact, 
the  Boss  had  come  to  the  Conclusion  that  Oliver 
had  too  much  Brains  for  One  Man  and  he  ought 
to  incorporate  for  his  Own  Best  Interests. 

When  Oliver  remonstrated  that  he  was  quite 
willing  to  stay  on  with  the  Gew-Gaw  Magazine, 
even  if  it  did  cramp  his  Style,  the  Boss  merely 
made  a  Bicycle  Face  and  allowed  the  Remark  to 


As  he  gyrated  from  Socrates  to  Samoa  their 

eyes  grew  round  with  wonder.   In  the  parlance 

of  the  poet  laureate  of  Broadway,  the  boss 

simply  knocked  'em  dead 


Listened  to  Treason  1 4 l 

skid  off  his  Front  Tire.  And  when  Oliver  came 
down  off  his  Perch  and  whined  that  Jobs  were 
scarce  and  he  didn't  know  where  he  could  get  one, 
the  Boss  tried  to  smooth  the  Ruffled  Pillows  by 
observing  that  when  a  Man  has  made  his  Bed 
there  is  only  one  Hotel  to  stop  at. 

By  the  time  Oliver  came  to,  he  had  more 
Bruises  than  the  Best  Man  at  a  Polish  Wedding. 
But  the  Boss  couldn't  stop  to  administer  First  Aid 
as  he  had  a  Major  Operation  looming  up  ahead. 
So,  summoning  his  well-preserved  Office  Manager, 
Mr.  Henry  Pulp  Wagmore,  he  asked  that  all  the 
Folk  in  the  Outer  Office  assemble  in  his  Lair,  with 
the  exception  of  Mike,  the  Office  Boy,  who  was  to 
keep  watch  outside  while  the  Seance  took  place. 

Henry  waddled  outside  with  the  Foreboding 
that  all  was  not  quiet  along  the  Potomac  and, 
without  further  ado,  huddled  the  Galley  Slaves 
into  the  Pilot's  Office.  The  Latter  Individual 
opened  the  Nautical  Proceedings  by  observing 
that  Mr.  Oliver  Underwood,  his  valued  Assistant 
Editor,  had  just  tendered  his  Resignation  for 
Reasons  which  neither  the  Boss  nor  Mr.  Under 
wood  was  privileged  to  disclose  at  the  Moment. 


M-2 The  Boss  Who 

At  this  Remark  a  Shudder  went  through  the 
Assembled  Congregation  because  they  didn't  quite 
like  the  Tone  the  Sky-Pilot  took.  They  weren't 
exactly  nervous — they  merely  shook  from  Cellar 
to  Cornice.  And  as  for  Miss  Bara  Cuda,  she  felt 
about  as  dizzy  as  a  Globe-trotting  Schoolmarm 
perched  atop  the  Leaning  Tower  of  Pisa. 

Noting  these  slight  Symptoms  of  Apprehension, 
and  nothing  loath,  the  Boss  began  doling  out  his 
Distilled  Wisdom  in  large,  allopathic  Doses.  It 
had  suddenly  dawned  on  him  that  he  was  neglect 
ing  a  Serious  Duty  in  letting  his  Aides  struggle 
along  without  his  help;  and,  just  to  show  that  his 
Cardiac  Department  was  not  misplaced,  he  was 
willing  to  come  down  every  morning  at  eight- 
thirty  to  help  his  Scholars  along  with  their  Personal 
Education.  Although  this  was  half  an  hour  earlier 
than  the  Ordained  Hour  for  Opening,  they  could 
see  it  was  for  their  own  Benefit  and  not  for  his. 

As  a  Tentative  Curriculum,  he  suggested  a 
Short  Course  that  ran  the  gamut  from  Archimedes 
to  Zola.  He  touched  lightly  on  the  importance  of 
Sanscrit  in  the  daily  lives  of  people;  and  he  urged 
them  to  nip  off  some  Greek  Roots,  if  they  could 


Listened  to  Treason  *  4  3 

possibly  find  time.  He  discoursed  learnedly  on 
the  great  Games  fellows  like  Euclid  and  Copernicus 
used  to  play — and  said  they  would  find  them  much 
more  entertaining  than  the  Childish  Antics  of 
Mugsie  McGraw  and  Tyrus  Cobb.  By  no  means 
did  they  want  to  pass  up  the  Delicacies  prepared 
by  Benvenuto  Cellini  and,  if  they  grew  tired  of 
that,  they  might  drop  in  at  Mme.  de  Stael's  for  an 
evening. 

In  the  parlance  of  the  Poet  Laureate  of  Broad 
way,  the  Boss  simply  knocked  'em  dead.  As  he 
gyrated  between  Socrates  and  Samoa,  their  Eyes 
grew  round  with  Wonder.  Was  this  the  same 
Boss  who  had  told  them  to  veer  away  from  this 
High-Brow  Chatter  and  get  down  to  Primer  Stuff? 
Impossible!  But  there  he  was  winging  along  like 
a  Flail  in  Full  Swing! 

During  the  Course  of  his  Discourse,  the  Boss 
made  rather  Pointed  Reference  to  the  Sword  of 
Damocles,  tapering  it  with  the  Suggestion  that 
whenever  they  felt  in  a  belligerent  Mood,  they 
would  find  nothing  more  enjoyable  than  the  Story 
of  the  French  Revolution  with  its  Guillotine  Per 
formances,  matinee  and  evening. 


44  The  Boss  IVho 

Without  stopping  even  to  adjust  his  Rims,  the 
Boss  kept  burning  up  the  Track  in  a  Manner  that 
would  have  turned  Barney  Oldfield  saffron  with 
Envy.  On  one  Lap  he  picked  up  Pythagoras, 
honked  a  Graveled  Greeting  to  Demosthenes, 
waved  a  cheery  Hello  to  Epictetus  and  doffed  his 
Hat  in  friendly  obeisance  to  Confucius,  Buddha 
and  Brahma.  By  the  time  he  got  back  to  Aris 
totle  and  Marcus  Aurelius  he  was  just  picking  up 
his  Second  Wind. 

The  Boss  didn't  care  especially  whether  he  was 
exceeding  the  Syllable  Limit  or  not.  So,  suppres 
sing  an  Inward  Chuckle,  he  piloted  his  Verbal 
Jitney  from  Hobohemia  to  the  Hang-out  of 
Hottentots.  His  Gas  kept  bubbling  all  the  way 
from  Charlemagne  to  Attila  to  Jenghis  Khan  with 
occasional  Stop-offs  at  such  easy  Places  as  Flaubert, 
Euripides,  Keats  and  Shelley. 

He  emphasized  the  Importance  of  cultivating 
such  Club-Comrades  as  Don  Juan  and  Don 
Quixote  and  was  on  the  point  of  delving  into  the 
Rhythmic  Realms  of  Grieg  and  Massenet  when 
he  noticed  that  his  Audience  was  gasping  for 
Breath  and  going  down  for  the  Third  Time  in  his 


Listened  to  Treason  1 4  5 

Sea  of  Words.  Whereupon  he  weighed  Anchor 
and  told  them  he  would  expect  Personal  Reports 
of  Progress  at  eight-thirty  each  morning. 

And  to  this  Day,  no  one  knows  how  the  Boss 
came  to  swallow  Dr.  Eliot's  Five-Foot  Shelf  in  one 
Gulp;  no  one  knows  why  Oliver  Underwood  was 
suddenly  goofed  off  the  Gew-Gaw  Horizon;  no  one 
realizes  how  spiteful  an  Innocent  Little  Thing  like 
an  Open  Transom  can  be;  and  no  one  can  figure  out 
how  Mike  O'Leary,  that  fresh  Office  Boy,  can 
afford  to  sprout  a  New  Suit  and  a  Season  Ticket 
to  the  Ball  Grounds  when  everyone  knows  his 
Widowed  Mother  takes  in  Washing  to  make  Ends 
meet. 

MORAL:  The  quickest  way  to  quell  a  riot 
is  to  start  one  yourself. 


All  Fuzz  and  a  Yard  Wide 

WHEREIN  is  recorded  the  tale 

of  a  man  'who  was  a  glutton 

for  work^  but  whose  eyes 

were  larger  than  his 

stomach 


ALL  FUZZ 
and  a  YARD  WIDE 

A  Fable  about  the  Jo-it-all  who  did  nothing 

WHETHER  or  not  we  believe  in  the  Flub 
dub  of  the  Palmist  or  the  Whimsies  of  the 
Weather  Vane,  it  is  only  seasonable  to 
assume  that  Jupiter  Pluv  was  editing  the  Almanac 
when  Tobias  Grim  wood  shot  over  the  Rapids  into 
this  Vale  of  Tears.  For,  when  the  time  came  for 
the  Roll-call  of  Birthmarks,  there  were  found 
among  those  present  a  Foreboding  Brow,  a  Rainy 
Sunday  Complexion  and  a  Howling  Dervish  of  a 
Disposition. 

Still,  just  to  show  you  that  there  is  such  a  thing 
as  a  Happy  Ending  even  at  the  Beginning,  I  will 
throw  in  the  Clutch  long  enough  to  remark  that 
Tobias  grew  up  to  be  a  Man  of  Parts — of  so  many 
Parts,  in  fact,  that  his  Innards  resembled  the 
Operating  Department  of  a  Swiss  Verithin  Watch. 

Even  as  a  Lad  in  School,  Toby  exhibited  a  pro 
nounced  Tendency  to  take  all  the  Parts  in  the  Play 
for  himself.  Not  that  he  wanted  to  cop  all  the 
Spotlight — not  that  he  begrudged  others  a  Speak- 


'5° All  Fuzz  and 

ing  Part  or  two — but  wholly  and  solely  because  he 
wanted  to  do  Everything  himself. 

Just  about  the  time  Toby  emerged  into  the  Sap 
ling  Class,  he  heard  a  bright  Sunday  School  Spruce 
remark  that  Success  is  like  an  Orphan  Asylum  in 
that  it  is  made  up  of  a  Lot  of  Little  Things.  And, 
all  through  Life,  he  religiously  adhered  to  that 
Precept. 

From  an  anatomical  Point  of  View,  Toby  was  as 
tall  as  a  Telephone  Pole  and  about  as  corpulent  as 
a  Match.  While  this  may  have  been  due  to  the 
fact  that  his  Infantile  Diet  had  consisted  largely 
of  Lemon  Juice  and  Lime  Water,  it  is  much  more 
probable  that  he  had  acquired  his  Vinegary  Tem 
perament  by  a  Process  of  Personal  Inhalation. 

In  his  Boyhood  Days  his  Mother  was  wont  to 
ask  what  was  eating  him;  and  in  his  Benedic 
tine  Days,  alas,  his  Wife  picked  up  the  same 
unsweet  Refrain  and  sang  it  every  Breakfast  Morn 
— providing  her  hectic  Hubby  took  time  enough 
to  wade  into  the  Solid  Sustenance  and  Liquid 
Washdown  set  forth  for  the  Delectation  of  his 
Gastric  Juices. 

In  short,  Tobias  Grimwood  was  the  Original 


a  Yard  Wide 


Irritable  Cuss  —  in  the  large  family  size.  He  had 
gone  in  for  the  Long  Face  and  the  Perennial  Frown 
so  long  that  not  even  an  Open-minded  Camera 
would  dare  to  shutter  at  the  Thought.  But,  aside 
from  the  Fact  that  he  had  severed  his  Jocular 
Vein  and  had  forgotten  how  to  laugh;  and  aside 
from  the  innocent  Avowal  that  he  wore  both  Sus 
penders  and  Belt  to  show  his  Shaky  Faith  in 
Trouserkind;  and  aside  from  the  Reputation  he 
had  achieved  as  a  dyed-in-the-wool  and  mellowed- 
in-wood  Pessimist,  Toby  wasn't  such  a  bad  sort  at 
that. 

Like  many  of  us  who  blunder  into  a  blustering 
Storm  with  our  Cravenettes  turned  inside  out, 
Tobias  meant  well.  Fact  is,  he  meant  entirely  too 
well.  His  idea  of  Maximum  Efficiency  was  to  have 
Everything  in  the  Shop  percolate  through  his 
Nervous  Fingers.  He  was  in  the  habit  of  lamenting 
that  Good  Help  was  as  scarce  as  Hen-teeth  when 
he  had  all  the  available  h.  t.  in  town  cooped  up  in 
his  own  Roost. 

By  some  queer  quirk  of  The  Powers  That  Be  Up 
stairs,  the  fussy,  finicky  Bosses  seem  to  garner  the 
best  Help.  Why  this  is  so  is  something  the  sad 


All  Fuzz  and 


Chronicler  of  these  lines  does  not  profess  to  know. 
The  fact  remains,  howsomever,  that  Tobias  Grim- 
wood  had  competent  aides  de  camp  who  could 
handle  things  from  Soup  to  Hazel  without  even  a 
Ripple  of  Ketchup  on  the  Table-cloth.  But  with 
Tobias,  all  this  went  for  nixie-nix  nux  vomica.  For, 
how  could  they  hope  to  do  Things  the  way  be 
wanted? 

For  instance  —  there  was  William  Abel,  his 
Right-hand  Man,  who  could  swing  a  Hefty  Left, 
too,  if  the  need  arose.  Even  a  Lampless  Lizzie 
could  see  that  William  was  an  able  Fellow.  But 
that  was  just  the  trouble,  according  to  his  Appre 
ciative  Employer,  Mr.  Grimwood. 

"That  Fellow  is  too  bloomin'  competent,"  Toby 
would  moan.  "Have  to  watch  these  cock-sure 
Fellas.  Too  self-reliant  —  think  they  can't  make 
Mistakes  —  uh!  Get  you  in  deep  Ditch  Water  if 
you're  not  keerful." 

And  then  there  was  Polly  Anna  Perkins  who  was 
a  decidedly  capable  Young  Matron.  But  Tobias 
didn't  especially  relish  this  Young  Lady  of  Affairs 
because  she  pawed  over  him  too  much  —  made  him 
nervous.  According  to  this  genial  Gentleman's 


a  Yard  Wide 153 

Survey  of  the  Feminine  Situation,  Polly  had  a 
Mean  Shoulder  and  her  Feet  were  too  big.  As  this 
is  rather  indefinite,  I  should  extend  this  by  saying 
that  she  had  Feet  like  Polly  the  Pie  Girl  in  Jerry's 
One  Arm  Lunch. 

But  a  Lady's  Pedal  Reach-outs  -are  not  neces 
sarily  indicative  of  her  Mental  Scope.  Polly  had 
a  perfectly  Good  Head  on  her  Shoulders  (which 
weren't  a  bit  mean,  if  you  want  to  know  the  Shapely 
Truth)  and  she  was  perfectly  willing  to  put  that 
Head  to  use  for  the  good  of  Toby.  But  a  lass  and  a 
lack — nothing  doing! 

Tobias  would  summon  his  Aides  of  a  Morning, 
outline  the  Routine  of  the  Day  and  then,  after 
Hours,  would  preen  over  their  Desks  to  see  if 
everything  was  hunky-dory.  It  wasn't,  he  told  the 
still  small  Voice  of  Conscience,  that  he  didn't  trust 
them — he  just  wanted  to  make  sure.  Of  course, 
his  Dinner  at  home  would  get  cold  and  his  Frau 
would  get  poutish,  but,  it  be  didn't  look  out  for  all 
these  Little  Things  —  Goodnight,  Montessori! — 
who  would  ? 

On  those  Rare  Occasions  when  some  one  did  pull 
a  Boner,  Tobias  would  hail  the  Quivering  Culprit 


Tobias  Grimwood  went  in  for  the  long  face 
and  the  perennial  frown.  He  had  severed  his 
jocular  vein  and  had  forgotten  how  to  laugh 


a  Yard  Wide 155 

before  him  and  work  himself  into  a  Violent  Lather. 
The  Perspiration  would  stand  out  on  his  Forehead 
like  the  Excess  Moisture  on  a  Slab  of  new-mown 
Neapolitan  Ice  Cream.  And  he  would  call  on  the 
High  Gods  to  witness  the  Waste,  the  Profligacy 
and  the  Sheer  Stupidity  of  the  Present  Day  and 
Age.  Only,  my  dear  Vivian,  his  Language  on  such 
Occasions  wasn't  quite  so  velvetish. 

Then  he  would  jounce  himself  Home,  all  tuckered 
out,  and  about  as  enticing  to  the  Eye  as  a  Sick 
Cucumber  in  the  Sun.  No  matter  how  tempting 
the  Viands  placed  before  him — no  matter  how 
much  his  Helpmeet  had  stewed  and  slaved  to 
cajole  his  capricious  Appetite — Tobias  would 
sniffle  in  disdain.  He  would  absorb  his  Soup  like  a 
Wild  Bee  drains  a  Rose,  and  would  clean  up  the 
Dinner  Sweepstakes  in  record  time,  winding  up 
with  a  Quick  Hurdle  of  the  Dessert  Barrier. 

And  if  the  Wife,  in  an  Angelic  Effort  to  chirk 
him  up,  would  suggest  a  Show  or  a  Show-up  Visit 
to  some  gracious  Non-Relatives,  Tobias  would  get 
on  the  Stump  and  begin  to  rail  all  over  again. 
What — go  out  this  evening — the  way  he  felt? 
Couldn't  she  see  he  was  dying  on  his  Feet  ?  Couldn't 


All  Fuzz  and 


she  see  he  was  worn  to  a  Frazzle  and  that  he  had 
gone  through  a  grilling  Grind  from  early  Morn  to 
Eventide?  What  was  the  Matter  with  the  Present 
Generation  of  Wives,  anyway?  All  they  thought 
about  was  Clothes  and  Entertainment!  Suffering 
Corn  toads,  what  a  selfish  and  inconsiderate  World 
this  was! 

As  Toby  put  it,  it  was  a  Tale  that  would  bring 
Tears  to  the  Eyes  of  a  Snow  Man  —  let  alone  the 
loving  Wife  of  his  heaving  Bosom.  And  so,  of 
course,  the  Good  Wife  would  try  and  comfort  and 
caress  the  Poor  Tired  Grizzly.  She  would  fetch  out 
the  famous  Prescription  of  Slippers,  Pipe  and 
Newspaper  —  warranted  to  soothe  all  Ruffled 
Bears  —  and  resign  herself  to  another  Evening  of 
stifling  Boredom. 

By  the  time  Toby  hit  the  Hay  every  night  he 
would  look  about  as  cheerful  as  the  Chief  Mourner 
at  an  Old-fashioned  Wake  who  announces  that  "All 
Friends  may  now  pass  to  the  right  of  the  Casket  — 
Perfesser,  Hearts  and  Flowers." 

Toby's  pet  method  of  wooing  the  much-wooed 
Morpheus  was  to  pillow  his  aching  Head  in  a  pair 
of  palsied  Hands  and  count  Sheep.  Yea,  verily, 


a  Yard  Wide *57 

the  Black  Sheep  of  his  Fold.  He  would  wonder,  for 
example,  whether  the  Night  Watchman  was  doing 
the  Airedale  Act  at  the  Store  or  whether  he  was 
holding  spirited  Converse  with  the  Ex-Bar-Keep 
who  presided  over  the  Night  Hawk  Lunch  Room 
'round  the  corner. 

He  would  allay  his  Troubled  Mind  with  the 
Pleasant  Thought  that  on  the  Morrow  he  would 
throw  his  Paper  Weight  at  the  Office  Boy  for 
leaving  the  Transom  and  the  Window  open  at  the 
same  time.  And  then,  on  the  succeeding  Night, 
after  he  had  duly  established  a  new  Record  in 
Abdominal  Marksmanship,  he  would  decide  that 
he  had  better  raise  the  Kid's  Pay  lest  the  Father 
of  said  Youngling  make  him  pay  heavily  for  his 
Target  Practice. 

And  if,  perchance,  the  Fire  Engines  went  clang 
ing  down  the  Street  like  Demons  of  the  Night, 
Toby  would  immediately  jump  to  the  Nightgown 
Conclusion  that  it  was  the  Paint  Store  next  door 
and  why  in  blazes  were  Paint  Shops  allowed  to 
smudge  the  Earth? 

And  that  was  the  endless  Way  of  it.  If  it  were 
not  One  Thing  to  worry  about  it  was  Another. 


'58 All  Fuzz  and 

Usually  it  was  Both.  Small  wonder,  then,  that 
Toby  awoke  each  Morning  refreshed,  exuberant 
and  with  all  his  Spirits  hitting  on  high — mebbe! 
Small  wonder  that,  one  Day,  his  Solicitous  Wife — 
with  the  eternal  Intuition  ingrained  in  her  Tribe — 
saw  the  111  Winds  whirling  around  Toby's  Head 
and  decided  that  she  had  better  get  a  Doctor  and 
get  him  quick.  For,  this  couldn't  last  long — nor 
Toby,  either! 

Mr.  Grim  wood,  however,  could  not  quite  see  the 
Necessity  of  all  the  Thumping  and  Thawing  he 
received  at  the  hands  of  the  owlish  Medico.  He 
admitted  he  felt  a  little  out  of  sorts  but  that  was 
all.  The  Disciple  of  Hippocrates  not  only  agreed 
with  the  Patient  but  assured  him  that  unless  he 
went  away  for  a  Good,  Long  Rest,  said  Good,  Long 
Rest  would  come  to  Toby  entirely  of  its  own 
Accord  and  without  any  Effort  on  his  part  at  all. 

In  fine,  the  beardless  Bard  made  it  painfully 
plain  to  Toby  that  he  was  running  along  on  a  High 
Tension  Track  with  quite  a  few  Cylinders  missing 
and  that,  unless  he  slowed  up,  he  would  whiz  past 
the  Judge's  Stand  faster  than  he  knew. 

Toby  listened  to  the  Dope  Sheet  with  all  the 


a  Yard  Wide  159 

respectful  Attention  that  one  must  accord  an 
Expensive  Specialist.  But,  in  the  same  inward 
Breath,  he  was  telling  the  Doctor  to  go  to  Grass 
or  some  other  Downy  Place  known  for  its  Comforts 
warm. 

The  Doctor's  Verdict  was,  so  to  salve,  the  Fly  in 
the  Unguent.  Toby  found  himself  in  the  Grip  of 
a  great,  gooey  Gob  of  Gloom.  A  Blizzard  of  Bitter 
ness  raged  in  his  Soul.  After  all  his  Work  and 
Worry  and  Fret  and  Sweat — where  was  he?  Was 
there  no  Balm  in  Gilead? 

No — but  there  was  at  Los  Golfos — whither  his 
Wife  bade  him  hie  himself  and  hie  fast.  But  Toby 
remonstrated  that  it  would  cost  a  Whale  of  Kale; 
and  besides,  didn't  she  realize  that  the  Business 
would  go  to  Rack  and  Ruin  if  he  were  not  on  the 
Job  all  the  time? 

Friend  Wife,  however,  assured  her  Ailing  Hus 
band  that  while  the  Month's  Trip  might  cost  a 
Wad  of  Wampum  it  wasn't  nearly  as  expensive  as 
the  latest  Styles  in  Wooden  Kimonos.  And,  as  for 
the  Business,  she  would  keep  her  Proprietary  Eye 
peeled  on  the  Store  during  his  Absence. 

Finally,  after  considerable  Gnashing  of  Teeth 


Thus  propped  up  on  the  cushions  of  human 

faith,  our  unhappy  invalid  reached  Los  Golfos 

tvhere  he  gave  himself  over  to  the  delightful 

pursuit  of  chasing  pills  every  morning 

and  swallowing  them  every  night 


a  Yard  Wide 


and  Donning  of  Sackcloth,  Toby  was  convoyed 
to  the  Train  —  his  Affectionate  Spouse  on  one  side, 
assuring  him  that  she  would  send  him  a  detailed 
Report  by  Wire  each  day  —  and  his  Attending 
Physician  on  the  other  side,  assuring  him  that  the 
Only  Way  he  could  hope  to  Pullman  through  Life 
was  to  keep  a  Stiff  Upper  all  the  Way. 

Thus  propped  up  on  the  Cushions  of  Human 
Faith,  our  Unhappy  Invalid  reached  Los  Golfos 
where  he  gave  himself  over  to  the  Delightful  Pur 
suit  of  chasing  Pills  every  morning  and  swallowing 
them  every  night. 

Hardly  had  Toby's  Train  wound  its  Serpentine 
Trail  out  of  the  City  when  his  Better  and  Gentler 
Half  summoned  William  Abel  and  Polly  Anna 
Perkins  —  who  were  shelved  a  little  while  back,  as 
you  may  remember  —  and  slipped  them  the  Big 
Absent  Word. 

William,  who  was  an  ambidextrous  Person, 
leaped  to  the  High  Vault  with  both  Hands,  both 
Feet  and  an  omnivorous  Desire  to  show  the  Boss 
what  he  could  do  unfettered  and  unrestrained. 
While  Polly  freshened  up  like  a  Wilted  Geranium 
in  Water  and  vowed  that  here  would  be  One  Place 


162 All  Fuzz  and 

where  the  Mice  wouldn't  play  while  the  Cat  was 
away.  Mrs.  Toby — wise  woman  that  she  was — 
disregarded  the  unintentional  Feline  Thrust  and 
told  them  to  go  to  it! 

But  in  the  meanwhile,  as  Jimmy  Swinnerton 
used  to  say,  Toby  grew  fussy  and  fidgety  and 
stiff  with  fear.  Despite  the  cheerful  Tenor  of 
his  Wife's  Daily  Communiques,  he  just  knew  that 
the  Business  was  going  to  the  Bow-wows.  How 
could  Things  go  right  when  he — Tobias  Grimwood 
— wasn't  there  to  steer  the  Ship  of  State? 

Yes — happy  thought ! — he  would  return  at  once, 
without  even  troubling  to  tell  Friend  Wife  about 
it.  He  only  prayed  that  he  would  get  back  in  time 
to  salvage  something  from  the  Wreck  and  piece 
the  Shreds  together. 

Accordingly,  Toby  returned  to  his  Native  Heath 
and,  in  a  moment  of  Gum-shoe  Deviltry,  instructed 
the  Cabby  to  whirl  him  past  the  Store  so  he  could 
get  a  quick  Look  at  the  shambling  Ruins.  What  a 
Sight  it  would  be,  groaned  Toby!  The  Windows 
would  be  unwashed  and  unashamed,  the  Girls 
in  the  Store  would  be  chewing  Gum  and  reading 
Bobby  Chambers,  the  Men  would  be  lolling  on  Coun- 


a  Yard  Wide  , 163 

ters  and  swapping  Stories,  and  the  Sheriff  would  be 
hanging  around  the  corner  like  Peck's  Bad  Boy. 

At  this  juncture,  the  Cab  skidded  right  in  front 
of  Toby's  Establishment  and  lo  and  behold! — the 
Radiant  Changes  that  had  been  wrought!  The 
Clerks  were  all  busy  and  Everything  was  ship-shop. 
Customers  were  streaming  in  with  bright,  expec 
tant  Faces  and  streaming  out  with  healthy-looking 
Purchases.  And  far  from  the  drab  and  sorry  Spec 
tacle  he  had  envisioned,  the  Store  was  as  en 
trancing  as  a  Gem  from  Araby.  It  was  quite  the 
Brightest  Thing  in  Town — it  had  more  Verve  and 
Sparkle  than  any  of  them.  In  fact,  it  stood  out  like 
a  Pink  Shirt  at  a  Ministers'  Conference! 

After  Toby  had  drunk  in  the  Scene  to  the  Full 
ness  of  his  Galloping  Heart,  he  stole  Home  quietly, 
let  himself  in  by  the  Back  Door  so  as  not  to  rouse 
Suspicion  and,  ascending  to  his  Lair  upstairs,  sank 
down  into  a  Yawning  Chair  to  chew  the  Cud  of 
Reflection.  What  a  Fool  he  had  been  to  think  that 
he  was  absolutely  indispensable — that  he  had  to 
watch  over  every  Brood  of  Chicks  that  emanated 
from  his  Hatchery!  What  an  Idiot  he  had  been  to 
wear  himself  out  on  a  lot  of  Petty  Details  that 


164      All  Fuzz  and  a  Yard  Wide 

other  Folk  could  do  heaps  better  than  he!  Holy 
Hatteras! — he  was  so  glad  and  mad  at  the  same 
time  that  he  didn't  know  whether  to  throw  his 
Hat  in  the  Air  or  to  throw  Himself  out  of  the 
Window. 

Toby  was  hovering  on  the  Brink  of  a  Rash  De 
cision  when  his  Wife  bustled  into  the  Room — 
ostensibly  to  find  Something  but  really  to  take 
an  Affectionate  Peek  at  the  Pet  Picture  of  her 
Darling  Hubby  that  hung  on  the  Wall  of  his  Den. 
To  say  that  Mrs.  Toby  was  shocked  to  find  her 
d.  h.  here  in  the  Flesh  is  putting  it  mildly.  But, 
she  recovered  quite  quickly  and  quite  becomingly 
and  gurgled  that  this  was  some  surprise!  And  that 
she  was  so  glad  he  had  come  back  because  they 
didn't  know  what  to  do  without  him!  And  that 
the  real  Reason  he  had  come  back  so  soon  was 
that  he  was  lonesome  for  her — wasn't  it,  now? 
And  what  a  dear,  darling  Boy  he  was!  But,  inci 
dentally,  the  adroit  Lady  forgot  to  tell  her  dear, 
darling  Toby  that  she  had  just  wired  him  he  could 
stay  away  two  months  as  well  as  one. 

MORAL:  Don't  try  to  unwind  all  the  yarn 
yourself— you  II  only  get  tangled  in  the  end. 


THE    •    END 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWE1 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  of 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


rcfcx- 


LD2lA-40m-ll,'63 
(E1602slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


